The Things We Fear
by wordybirds
Summary: With the end of the war, danger and fear are left far behind. Or are they? Wordybirds' one and only post-war fic. Please read and review. Thanks.
1. Old Friends

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, original characters, and storyline belongs to wordybirds... Thanks.

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Note: After a long absence, we have finally managed to touch base again, and although this story was written some time ago, we both wanted to see it shared with the Hogan's Heroes community. This is the one and ONLY post-war fic we have written, and it makes some significant references to LJ Groundwater's trilogy that starts with "Welcome to Stalag 13" and the prequel, "Once Upon a Time: Papa Bear." _It can be read without having read those stories,_ but does link into them.

Thanks for having us back....

Wordybirds

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**The things we fear the most have already happened to us.**

**—Deepak Chopra**

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Peter Newkirk came out of the baggage claim area at Washington National Airport with a fairly large garment bag slung over his shoulder and carrying a small case in his hand. The Englishman was smartly dressed in a carefully tailored dark blue suit worn over a cream-colored sweater, and as he walked through the concourse, the overhead lighting picked up a scattering of grey mixed in with his dark brown hair. He looked around, shrugged a bit and headed for the lounge, figuring it was as good a place as any to wait for his ride.

"You planning to get back to my place via the lounge, are you?" came a voice from behind.

Newkirk wheeled around with a grin on his face. "Not exactly, gov'nor. I just thought a weary traveler might find a bit of rest in there before movin' on out to explore the Colonies."

The twinkle in Robert Hogan's eyes remained as bright as Newkirk had remembered them, but his expert survey told him a few other things had changed. The American's dark hair was now tinged with grey at the temples and sides, and Hogan looked more tired than he had when the two had last met, though that had been well over a year ago. The other thing that had changed was the number of decorations Hogan was wearing. Another two full rows of ribbon bars adorned his chest, and Hogan was no longer the Colonel that Newkirk had come to admire and respect—he was now a Brigadier General. But in name only, the Englishman thought with fondness. To Newkirk, Hogan would always be "the gov'nor."

"No time for rest now; we've got places to go and things to do."

Newkirk set his bags on an empty chair and the old friends shook hands firmly in greeting. Then Newkirk pulled Hogan into a rough embrace. "Good to see you again, sir."

"No more 'sir,'" Hogan corrected him as the men parted. "You're not under my command any more. A simple 'Rob' will suffice."

"Well, _Rob_, old habits do die hard, and with all that tin you're sportin' these days, it still seems sort of natural." Newkirk reached over and lightly tapped the block of ribbons on Hogan's jacket. "It's about bloody time they showed their appreciation anyway."

Hogan offered a lopsided smile. "Yeah, well, it's a bit too heavy to carry around for my taste," he said, shrugging off the compliment. "Sometimes I miss being plain old Colonel Hogan. Life was less complicated somehow—even running an espionage operation out of a POW camp!"

"None of that now, mate. You deserve all that, and more. It's just too bad the rest of the world doesn't know the truth yet." Newkirk shook his head, then shrugged as he picked up his bags. "Might be better that way, though."

Hogan furrowed his brow. "How's that?"

"Half of it they wouldn't believe, and the other half I'd just as soon forget."

Hogan laughed softly. "I'm with you there," he said. "Come on, let's talk in the car. I'm parked in a rather unforgiving little loading zone right outside." Newkirk gave him a surprised look. Hogan shrugged. "There have to be some privileges of rank. Who's going to tow a General?"

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Newkirk gave the vehicle a thoughtful glance as Hogan put the luggage into the trunk. "Nice-looking car you have here. Jillian and I haven't owned one since we moved into the flat over the shop last year. I miss it every now and then, but in the middle of London, we actually walk a lot more than we'd ever drive."

Hogan closed the trunk of the shiny blue Ford Coupe, ignoring the sideways glances of the taxi drivers nearby and opening the passenger door for Newkirk. "At your service," he said with a sweeping gesture.

Newkirk laughed as he slid onto the passenger seat. "Careful there, gov'nor. I might get used to that sort of thing."

"Don't worry; you won't," Hogan said, getting into the driver's seat and putting the key into the ignition. "If there's one thing I learned in This Man's Army it's that if someone's waiting on you hand and foot, it's just so they can push you headlong into something absolutely insane from the rear."

"So, what is it you've got in mind for me?"

Hogan looked out behind him to make sure he could pull out safely, then moved out into traffic. "Nothing much," he said. "But we do have a party to go to Friday night."

"The retirement thing for General Barton, you mean?" Newkirk leaned back in his seat, looking out the windows with interest. "You're absolutely certain you want me along on that? I mean, I'll be the only Englishman in a room full of Yank officers, after all."

"_Please_," Hogan said sarcastically. "You'll be the only source of decent conversation all night." He turned left and onto a highway, merging easily with the other cars on the road. "I don't think I could take another evening of discussions about constructing Officers' Clubs and how it was all the finely tuned strategies from London that got us through the war."

Newkirk shifted in his seat to take a long look at Hogan. "Now why is it, gov'nor, that I've got this sudden feeling Barton doesn't know I'm coming?" He watched Hogan's face closely, expecting to see the little grin that always meant that the American was up to something clever and underhanded.

He saw a chagrinned look instead. "Because he doesn't." Newkirk started to protest, but Hogan continued. "Well, I didn't know you were coming until _after_ I'd already agreed to go to this thing. And I don't think he'd have been very happy if I pulled out at the last minute. I didn't want you _not_ to come just because the brass is getting together, and I didn't want to leave you at home either, so…" Hogan glanced at Newkirk and then back at the road. "It'll give you a little taste of why I can't wait to retire to civilian flying."

"Honestly, I wouldn't mind if you went on alone, but I have to admit, sir, that I'm interested in seeing the look on his face when I walk in with you." He grinned smugly for a second as he remembered the dressing-down he'd given the General just before Barton had been taken out of Stalag 13 to be traded back to the Allies in a prisoner swap.

Hogan furrowed his brow. "It wouldn't be totally out of place to have you along. Old colleagues are never turned away."

"Relax, mate. I don't mind going. In fact, I remembered to bring something along to wear for the occasion."

"Good. Much as I like your sewing skills, a bit of military decorum is appreciated, even from _you_."

"From me? Might I remind you that it's strictly Peter Newkirk, Esquire, these days?"

Hogan shook his head. "That's what frightens me. Whenever you look like you're on the up and up, you're usually really into something down and dirty." He grinned. "And that's just the way I like it."

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Newkirk left the guest room and went into the living room, taking a look around as he headed for one of the chairs drawn up near the fireplace. A photograph on the wall caught his eye, and he nodded to himself as he realized it was a copy of one he had back in his flat. It was of himself, Hogan, Louis Le Beau, Andrew Carter and James Kinchloe, taken on the first night they'd gone out together after getting to London. He wasn't surprised to see it, knowing that each of them had one of the five copies that had been made.

Hanging next to that was another photograph, this one of Hogan in the company of Generals Dwight D. Eisenhower and "Hap" Arnold on the day the Colonel had received his promotion to Brigadier General. Newkirk smiled for a moment, remembering how embarrassed Hogan had been to be put into the spotlight that way, and how proud Newkirk and the others had been when the Colonel's eagles had been replaced by a General's star. Of course, they'd all had their turns up front later on, but that night had belonged to Hogan.

Newkirk moved away from the photographs, putting two wrapped packages on the coffee table before taking a seat. He looked around the comfortable, but somehow far too neat, room, and sighed softly. _All too solitary. He may live here, but it's not home._

Hogan emerged shortly after from the kitchen carrying two mugs brimming with hot coffee. "Made yourself comfortable, I see," he said, offering a cup to Newkirk and taking a sip from the other himself. "Not as strong as what we got used to a few years back, but miles more drinkable."

After taking a sip from the cup, Newkirk nodded. "You're right there, mate. Most of what we had back then was only called coffee as a courtesy to the pot it was made in."

"And even _that_ was American," Hogan said ironically. He shook his head. "It didn't take me long to get used to something else once we got home."

"The hardest thing for me to get used to was having a whole pot of real coffee on the stove, and not having to share it with fourteen other guys." Newkirk smiled, thinking of how everyone in the barracks would pool the coffee packets from their Red Cross packages, and how Le Beau would then ration it out, making the coffee last as long as possible. "In fact, it took me a couple of months to realize that you weren't going to come out of your office looking for a fresh cup."

Hogan let out a short laugh through his nose. "The most impossible mission of them all. If Louis didn't bring me one in my office once in awhile I'd have never known what a fresh cup tasted like." Hogan took a sip. "Still, every now and then I marvel at what we got used to there. A bunch of men, all together, and all needing privacy and dignity, ending up sharing the scrapings at the bottom of the pot."

"We did what we had to in order to survive." Newkirk shook his head and took another sip from the cup he had cradled in his hands. "I'm still amazed that we did what we did and, as they say, lived to tell the tale."

"'Live' is a relative term," Hogan said, shrugging. "Some fellas came back physically, but not mentally." He shook his head. "Some things were just too horrible to face. We were lucky most of the time."

"That we were, gov'nor." Newkirk spoke softly, staring into his coffee cup without really seeing it. "That we were."

Hogan's posture almost mirrored Newkirk's, but when he looked in his cup, Hogan saw things. He saw things he didn't want to see, and heard things he didn't want to hear, and felt things be couldn't bear to feel. He pushed them out of his mind and blinked himself back to the present. "So," he said, straightening in his seat, "how's my girl?"

Newkirk gave Hogan a look of indignation, though it was spoiled by the grin trying to break out on his face. "_Your girl_? Now see here, mate! I hear it from Louis all the time because he says she's too short for me, and now I've gotta hear it from you as well? I'll have you know that she's _my_ girl, and that's that."

Hogan raised his eyebrows innocently. "No one said we weren't willing to share, Newkirk," he said as a smile lifted one side of his lips. "Louis should leave you alone now that he's romantically involved… but the least you can do is loan your bachelor commanding officer your best girl once in awhile. Besides, she's too feisty for you; I can handle her—if she doesn't deck me first."

The mental image of his five-foot tall wife going up against his six-foot tall Colonel was too much for Newkirk; he burst out laughing and couldn't stop for several long seconds. When he finally did get himself back under control, he grinned at Hogan and shook his head. "Cor! Tell you what, gov'nor, if you think you've got a snowball's chance in Hell with her, you just go right on ahead and give it your best shot! Just don't come complaining to me when you wind up pickin' yourself up off the floor with a broken jaw."

Light danced in Hogan's mischievous eyes. "I've gotten pretty good at ducking and weaving. And I always did like a spirited woman." He paused, his thoughts clearly dragged away from this conversation to God-only-knew where, and then shrugged. "Okay, okay, you can have her—for now. But you still haven't answered my question: how's Jillian?"

"'For now,' he says. Wait until I tell my darling wife about _this_ bit." Newkirk rolled his eyes at Hogan, then settled into a fond smile. "Jillian is the only way she'll accept herself: perfect. We spent Christmas at home, then went up to her family place in Scotland for Boxing Day and stayed over for a spell. It's a slow time at the shop for me, and I finally convinced her to take some time off work herself for once. She's staying in Scotland a couple more days, then it's back to London for her, unfortunately." Newkirk sighed softly. "We tried to work it out so she could come with me on this trip as well, but we just couldn't pull it off this time around."

"Maybe next time," Hogan said with a small smile. "Make sure you give her my love."

"I will, Rob." Newkirk took a sip of his coffee and nodded. "And I'm to deliver a message to you as well: you're to get your office squared away and get yourself on a plane to London as quick as you can, no arguments accepted." He laughed softly. "That's the order I was given by my new commanding officer, gov'nor, and in this case, I'm afraid you're outranked."

Hogan chuckled. "Yes, sir—I mean yes, ma'am," he said, downing the rest of his coffee. "Far be it from me to disobey a direct order." He shook his head with a smile. "She's a good woman—heck, she'd _have _to be to listen to some of your jokes."

"That's charmin', that is." Newkirk laughed, relaxed, and took a long drink. "Seriously, Rob," he said, "it can get hard living on your own all the time—and we've a spare room at home if you ever find yourself wanting a change of scenery."

Hogan sighed and glanced around the room. "What, and leave this paradise?" he asked. "Thanks, Peter. I'd like to see a change of scenery from the air about now, but the brass is a little too interested in keeping me grounded." Hogan stopped. He had always wanted to go back to Europe one day—but not on his own. He wanted to go with someone else, preferably a wife, so he could get a different, more pleasant, perspective on the place than his own patchy memories allowed.

Looking up at Hogan in surprise, Newkirk studied his friend's face for a long moment. "They're still not letting you back in the air? Blimey, mate, why don't you just tell them what they can do with that and go find yourself a squadron somewhere if that's what you want?"

Hogan smiled and shook his head. "That's not how it works, Peter. Once we got home they wanted to know everything about the operation and how it ran and what we did and what I ate for breakfast. Then they pointed at my stars and said, 'And by the way, Rob, we need you in Strategic Planning back at the Pentagon for awhile. You'll be happy to do that, won't you?'" Hogan sighed. "They promised me a swift return to the skies. I get up there once in awhile… but with things the way they are in various places around the world at the moment, I haven't quite made it out of the office for good yet."

"You can't have told them _everything_, else they'd have taken one look at my passport and told me to shove off. As for the rest, just give them the old run-around the way you did the German General Staff on more than one occasion." The Englishman grinned briefly and held up a hand to forestall any comments. "I know, it's not like that in your army any more than it was in mine. That's why I gave myself a promotion to civilian just as soon as I could."

"I hear you," Hogan said, nodding. "One thing I _could_ do without is this notion of pat-yourself-on-the-back parties. Seems like I'm getting dragged to something at least once every couple of weeks. And it's usually the same group of people, talking about the same bunch of clever things they think they've pulled off." Hogan shook his head. "I haven't told anyone this yet, Peter, but when the time comes for me to re-sign, I'm thinking of getting out."

"That's a ruddy shame, gov'nor, with how much you actually like being in the Army. Can't say I blame you in the end, though."

"It suited me for awhile. I appreciate the discipline of the service, but I just went through too much to…" Hogan paused, thinking, then abruptly changed tack. "The civilian aviation industry is exploding now. I'm ready to get back in the air again. I need to move on."

"Well, when you're ready to chuck it all, give me and Louis a ring. Just be sure to give us enough time to make the trip over, and we'll help you throw a party like this town's never seen before!"

Hogan smiled again, with just a touch of sadness touching his eyes. Newkirk noticed it but said nothing as Hogan seemed to banish it almost instantly. "Anyway, what's this?" Hogan asked, pointing to the parcels on the table.

"When I happened to mention to my little mate Louis that I was heading across the Pond to visit with you, he insisted that I bring along something for you to remember him by." Newkirk leaned forward, picking up one of the packages and handing it to Hogan. "Just do me a favor and don't drop it."

Hogan turned the package over in his hands. "What is it, a glass strudel?" he asked lightly. He carefully, thoughtfully, started to untie the ribbon. "You see Louis a lot, from the sound of it."

Newkirk shook his head and chuckled quietly at Hogan's joke. "Louis and I visit back and forth with each other at least once a month," he said. "It's just a long train ride down to cross the Channel, then another train ride to Paris, and we take turns, so he's due to come up to London in a couple of weeks. Of course, with me being here in the Colonies for awhile, Louis is just gonna hold off until I get home."

Hogan nodded and finished unwrapping the gift. He held up the bottle of fine wine, his eyes seeing both this bottle and all the drinks they had poured in the past that sometimes were not of such fine vintage. "It's good," he said roughly. "It's good stuff." He cleared his throat. "We'll share a glass before you head home, eh?" he suggested. "A toast to old friends."

"Right, gov'nor," Newkirk said quietly.

Hogan once again shook himself back into brightness as he put the bottle aside. "And what's this?" he asked, taking the other parcel in his hands.

"That's from old Schultzie. Turns out he was able to get his toy factory back after things settled down some in Germany. He had the building, and the workers, and I... well, I kicked him over a few quid from all that back pay I had piled up in London to help him get it started up again. He's finally able to start paying me back a bit here and there. When he came up to the shop a couple of weeks ago, I must have mentioned coming to see you because a few days later, that arrived in the post with a note saying to bring it the rest of the way and deliver it to you for him."

Hogan nodded. Another link with his past—and with an enemy, no less! Well, Stalag 13's Sergeant of the Guard, Hans Schultz, could not in all rights be called an enemy—not a real one anyway. Often it was due to the burly guard looking the other way that Hogan and his men were able to complete their espionage and sabotage missions safely. And while occasionally Schultz did like to show the men whose side he was supposed to be on by waving a rifle in their faces, most of the time he could be counted on to show his more gentle side, and he vehemently declared that he knew, saw, and heard "nothing!"

Now, Hogan carefully opened up the box before him, and let a light laugh out through his nose when he moved back the tissue paper. "Did you know what this was?" He didn't wait for an answer, but ran his eyes over the gift top to bottom, finally letting his eyes rest on the label on the leather bomber jacket that the big brown teddy bear was wearing. "_Papa-Bär_," he breathed, shaking his head slowly. "Papa Bear." He pulled the soft toy out of the box and stared hard at it for a moment, once again his eyes almost troubled. "I wonder when he made the connection with the name." A small smile lifted the edges of Hogan's mouth as he thoughtfully turned the bear over in his hands. "Leave it to the head of the Schotzy Toy Company to give a grown man a teddy bear." He put it back in the box and laid it on the table. "I'll have to send him a big thank you. I haven't spoken to him in a long time. I guess I've been neglectful."

"He understands, Rob." Newkirk spoke softly. "In the letter he sent along with that, he asked that I tell you that he knew you were doing your duty, and he hopes that one day you can forgive him for doing his."

Hogan's eyes softened. "I never held it against him," he said, regretting the idea that the man might think his silence had anything to do with anger. "We all did what we had to do." He paused. "It was a barbarous time."

"That is was, mate, that it was." Leaning forward, Newkirk caught Hogan's eyes with his own. "Never forget that _everything_ we did was to carry the war right into the Nazis' own back yard. How did the orders go? 'You will assist escaping prisoners…"

Hogan joined in as Newkirk continued the mantra that Hogan himself had often used to remind his men of their duty when faced with unusually high danger: "'…cooperate with all friendly forces, and use every means to harass and injure the enemy.'"

Hogan nodded uncomfortably. "Well, we did that!" he said a little too brightly. He stood up. "I've been a terrible host, but then that was never my strong point as you might have noticed. You've had a long trip. Are you hungry? Tired?"

Nodding thoughtfully, Newkirk leaned back in his chair, accepting the change of subject, as he knew Hogan needed time to get his feelings back under control. Truth to tell, the Englishman needed the time, too, as the conversation was bringing up far too many unpleasant memories of his own. "I could do with a bite, as they don't exactly serve high tea while you're twenty thousand feet over the Atlantic." He smiled, hoping Hogan would be able to pick up the humor he was trying to put into his words. "Of course, if they did, it really would be a high tea, now wouldn't it?"

Hogan grinned thankfully. "I can't promise real tea unless we go out to dinner somewhere; I'm afraid I can't drink the stuff. But I can grill you up the best steak you've had in months! Why don't you go have a rest and I'll rustle something up right now. I don't often get to cook for anyone other than myself; it'll be quite an experience, for both of us!"

"That sounds grand, gov'nor. You know, the last time I went to Paris, Louis tried to get me to eat something he called _escargot_. Fancy way of sayin' _snail_, as I learned when he brought the plate out. Imagine eating _snails_, of all things!" Newkirk finished his coffee and shook his head. "Told him I'd rather take a chance on his ruddy fish stew than something that was just crawlin' in the garden that morning."

Hogan's eyes brightened now with his smile. "There's no accounting for taste," he said. "I promise—dead cow is all I serve here, no garden slugs."

"I'll have mine medium rare, if you don't mind. I'm not much help in the kitchen, but I can follow directions fairly well if you need a hand."

"Thanks, I'll manage. And then I'm afraid it's an early night for me. Good little Generals have to get up early so they can find their way through their paperwork mountains before they relax with their visitors."

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Newkirk's eyes came open, staring into the darkness as he tried to work out what had woken him up. Too many years of sleeping in a prisoner of war camp with one eye open and both ears tuned for trouble had turned him into a very light sleeper. He pushed back the blankets and sat up on the bed, not moving any further when he heard footsteps going by the door of his room. Listening closely for a moment, he shook his head when he realized it was Hogan. _Of course; who did you think it was gonna be, Peter? Someone breaking into the shop?_

Feeling a little foolish, Newkirk started to lay back down when he heard the footsteps move into the living room and change tempo. Six steps, a pause, then six again with another pause before repeating the pattern. _I'd know that sound anywhere. Why is the gov'nor up pacing at this hour? He's got something on his mind, that's easy to tell from the way he's moving. What's got him going? _

The Englishman sighed softly and lay back on the bed again, knowing that Hogan needed time to himself to work through his feelings; he wouldn't mention hearing this midnight wandering to his friend. Newkirk pushed the pillow aside and drew the blankets up over his shoulders. The sound of Hogan's measured footsteps going slowly back and forth across the living room, and concern about what was causing them, kept him awake the rest of the night.


	2. The Long, Dark Night

No ownership of the _Hogan's Heroes_ characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.

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The darkness of the soul is not lighted by moving the body to another place.

—Eastern Proverb

**The Long, Dark Night**

Hogan was surprised when he walked into his house at lunchtime the next day to find Newkirk waiting to take his overcoat and cap. "Right this way, sir," is all the Englishman said, making a sweeping gesture toward the kitchen.

Hogan furrowed his brow curiously but followed his guest. He stopped in the doorway and smiled when he saw a neat spread of salad and sandwiches waiting for him, all on a table simply but nicely decorated with things Newkirk had obviously found around the room. "You've been busy," he said, touched by the obvious care that had gone into the preparation.

"No trouble at all, mate. Breakfast is usually toast and a cup of Earl Grey, and the folks on the evening shift at several restaurants back home all know me quite well since Jillian often works nights." Newkirk shrugged slightly as he poured coffee for both of them. "As you said last night about dinner, I don't often have the chance to do for someone either, and making lunch or putting on an afternoon tea is pretty much the extent of my culinary skills."

Newkirk continued as they both took seats at the table. "Besides, I expect to pull my own weight around here, gov'nor." He grinned at Hogan's raised eyebrows, as it was clear the American was thinking about how he'd always dodged as much work as possible back at Stalag 13. "That's Jillian's doing there." Newkirk's grin changed to a fond smile. "A couple of months after we got married, she just up and stopped working on anything around the house except making her own meals and doing her own laundry. After a few days, I got fed up and we had a bit of a row over it. She pointed out to me that since she worked all day just like I did, I hadn't any reason to expect that she was gonna wait on me hand and foot all night as well. She couldn't stand a slacker, and told me that I'd best shape up or else. I couldn't stand the thought of what 'or else' might be, so I got in the habit of helping out, and I reckon it's stuck with me."

"I knew she was a smart girl the moment I met her." A little grin came across Hogan's face as he responded. "Of course, I _did_ wonder why she'd marry a guy like you in the first place."

Newkirk laughed at both the comment and the teasing tone of Hogan's voice. "I wondered that myself more than once. When I ask her about it, she gets this sort of smile, like she knows some grand secret she isn't going to share, then she changes the subject. Whatever the secret is, I'm grateful that she chose me, and that she thought I was good enough for her no matter what."

Hogan nodded, silent. "People have reasons for everything they do," he said, concentrating on the sugar bowl. He dropped one small teaspoon of sweetener into his cup. "And besides, if you were good enough for me, you'd be good enough for her. No one's decided _I'm_ good enough for _them_ yet…" He shrugged. "So, there are some things a Corporal can do better than a Colonel." He picked up a sandwich and took a big bite. "Mmf," he said between bites. "And making sandwiches is one of them. You really _are_ domesticated."

"Don't let it get around, else I'd never hear the end of it." Newkirk took a sip of his coffee, then gave Hogan a concerned look. "It'll happen for you, too, just like it did for me. One day you'll look around, and she'll be there. Don't give up on yourself, gov'nor. No matter how long it takes, don't ever give up."

Hogan shrugged, polishing off his sandwich and reaching for another one. "Women are funny about damaged goods," he said easily. "They figure any man my age who's a General must have had some real problems. Funny, they'll bargain basement shop for everything else!" He laughed. Newkirk couldn't quite decide if the humor was forced or genuine. "I'm not worried," Hogan continued. "Just be glad it happened to you."

"You're not bargain bin goods, mate. You're top shelf all the way. Always have been." Newkirk smiled. "I could put you up in the front window of my shop, only there wouldn't be enough room for all the birds that would come flocking in."

Hogan laughed lightly. "Then it's a good thing you didn't; otherwise there'd be too much call for your nimble fingers and your beautiful tailoring work!" One more drink of coffee and Hogan was up. "Okay, my job today is to show you our fair nation's capital. Suit up; we're heading into the city, at least until it's time to get ready for a dinner out on the town. You don't want to be stuck in a house all day."

"It'll be interesting to see what you Yanks have done with the Colonies since you decided you could set up shop for yourselves." Newkirk grinned and ducked out of the room before Hogan had time to come up with a suitable retort.

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Hogan stopped in the middle of the living room and ran his hands over his face again. Another night walking the floor. There had been too many of them lately. He had hoped to get them under control before Newkirk came to stay, but his mind was playing tricks on him—and not the kind that he enjoyed watching magicians perform, either. Eight times in the last two weeks, including tonight, he'd awakened with a sense of blind panic and fear that he hadn't experienced in years. And whenever he tried to pin it down to a specific nightmare—for there were many—he came up blank. Only incongruous pictures flashed through his mind, none of it clear, none of it real. He saw faces from his past, and was haunted by split-second sensations of unfocused pain that made his eyes water and left him bathed in a cold sweat. But there was no context for any of it. He tried to banish the terrors, but he didn't know how. All he knew was he didn't want to let them any further into his conscious mind.

And so he walked. Until he was certain he was too tired to dream.

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Newkirk lay in his bed, listening as Hogan paced in the living room again, only instead of the slow, measured tread of the night before, the footfalls were hesitant, with frequent pauses marking the times when their maker came to a stop. The Englishman frowned as he sat up. He'd spent many days watching Hogan pace across the barracks at Stalag 13, deep in thought, and he'd spent as many nights listening to his Colonel pacing in the small private room that was one of the few privileges of rank Hogan had ever gotten in the prisoner of war camp. Then, the American's footsteps had always had a steady rhythm. Now, that rhythm was markedly absent.

It was that difference that drew Newkirk down the hall to stand near the entry to the living room. Clad in a long dark green nightshirt, he blended into the shadows cast by the moonlight streaming in through the windows. That same moonlight revealed his friend standing in the middle of the room, slowly bringing his hands down from his face. Hogan held his hands out, focusing his attention on them, and even from his vantage point across the room, Newkirk could see that they were shaking.

The Englishman's heart fell. His friend was standing only a few feet away from him, but it was clear that the man's thoughts were a million miles away, in a place known only to himself. The look of fear and confusion on Hogan's face sent Newkirk's mind back to the day Colonel Hogan had arrived at Stalag 13. He'd never seen a man look so lost and alone before that day. Newkirk shivered as he realized he was seeing it all over again.

Newkirk put a hand on the wall to steady himself. He wanted to go to Hogan and help the man that had helped him so many times in the past. At the same time, the Englishman knew that Hogan, a very private man, would be horrified if he knew that Newkirk was seeing what was happening to him.

Taking a breath, Newkirk gathered his courage and stepped into the living room. He moved slowly, circling around to where he could approach Hogan from the front. The last thing Newkirk wanted to do was to startle the man and frighten him. When he was standing a few feet away, he stopped and waited to see if Hogan was even aware of his presence.

He wasn't. Hogan was looking at the floor, then at the wall, then at his hands. Newkirk could hear him occasionally whispering harshly to himself and shaking his head, but the words were inaudible. And then Hogan started pacing again, never noticing anything outside of his mind.

"Rob?" Speaking softly, Newkirk tried to get Hogan's attention. "It's Peter. Can you hear me, mate?" He waited to see if his words would have any effect.

Hogan turned at the sudden noise and stared, bewildered, at the unexpected intrusion. His wide eyes and pale, traumatized face struck Newkirk like a knife to the gut, shaking him to the core. "Rob," he whispered as he slowly reached out to his friend. "I'm here, gov'nor... it's only your old mate, Newkirk."

Hogan recoiled from Newkirk's outstretched hand, looking worriedly at the man's face, clearly not seeing him for who he was. Then, just as suddenly, his expression snapped to one of fear and despair, and, staring past Newkirk, he whispered, "I don't know what's happening to me."

Newkirk lowered his hand, but kept his eyes on Hogan's face. "I... don't know either, gov'nor, but I'm going to do everything I can to help you." He spoke softly, keeping his voice as steady as he could. "Do you know who I am?"

Newkirk brought his hand out again, and this time Hogan let himself be guided down into a chair. Newkirk sat a short distance away to allow him some breathing space. Hogan's troubled eyes wandered the room, and then shone, even in the dim light of night, as they fell with recognition on his visitor. Hogan nodded vaguely, then looked away, at the floor, at his hands, at nothing.

Newkirk breathed a sigh of relief. "Do you know where you are right now?" He leaned forward a bit, his hands gripping the arms of his chair to keep them from shaking; it wouldn't do to show Hogan just how afraid he was.

Hogan continued breathing steadily through his mouth, suspended in a strange world somewhere between his nightmares and reality. He was silent for a long time, so long Newkirk almost panicked, but finally, Hogan said breathlessly, "Home. I'm… home." Then he looked directly at Newkirk, desperate for confirmation of his words.

The Englishman nodded. "That's right, mate. You're in your own home, in the Colonies." He gave Hogan a gentle smile as he spoke. "America, I mean. You're safe, mate. Nothing can hurt you here."

Hogan lapsed into silence.

The silence grew as Newkirk waited, hoping Hogan would say something on his own. When it became clear that wasn't going to happen, Newkirk sighed and shook his head. "Blimey, gov'nor," he whispered, "I wish you could tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

Hogan stayed quiet a little longer. Then he drew in a long, slow breath and braced his hands on his knees as he spoke to the darkness. "It wakes me up at night," he said softly, slowly. "The panic. The pain. Nightmares. Flashes of…" He shook his head, at a loss and on the brink of tears. "They won't go away. I close my eyes and they're there. I open my eyes… sometimes they're so vivid I think they're real. And then they come back." He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. "They always come back." His voice breaking, he asked, "_Why won't they leave me alone?_"

"I don't know, mate. I truly don't know." Newkirk's eyes stung with tears he absolutely refused to shed. Seeing his friend in so much pain was tearing him apart, but he could not let Hogan know that, not now. He closed his eyes and searched his mind for something, anything, that might be of some help.

Finally, an old memory came to the surface, and he nodded as he faced Hogan again. "Rob... listen to me." Newkirk reached over and took a gentle hold of Hogan's wrists, giving them a slight pull, hoping his friend would allow it and look at him. At first Hogan resisted, his muscles tensing and locking in place. Then, gradually, as Hogan searched Newkirk's face, his resistance slackened, and he let Newkirk draw his arms down to his lap.

Newkirk nodded, taking a firm grip on Hogan's hands as he kept his eyes on the man's face. "This sounds a lot like something Joe Wilson talked with me about after we all got back to London. He warned me I might have trouble sleeping... and a lot of nightmares... because of some of the things I'd done while we were in Germany." Newkirk paused, making sure he had his voice under control before continuing. "I did... and I still do. I think that might be what's happening to you now."

"But the nightmares aren't about me doing things. These people are doing things _to_—" Hogan cut himself short, then shook his head. "They're just snatches of things, terrible things. It all seems so real. I get so scared I feel sick. The pain is unbearable. And when I feel like I'm about to go over the edge, I wake up… _and it still feels real_."

"Do you remember the very first game of cards we played together? It was five card stud. The bet was you'd tell your story and I'd tell mine. I folded with an ace-high straight that day because I just couldn't give an answer to what you told me about what happened to you after you'd been shot down and captured. You said you were in the hospital, probably the Hohemark, because you'd been wounded pretty badly. It makes sense that they'd think you were worth keeping alive long enough to be questioned at the Dulag Luft, given your rank and all." Newkirk fell silent, watching to see what effect his words had on Hogan.

Hogan just nodded; his memory of those early days in camp was still a blur. He waited without expectation for Newkirk to continue.

Newkirk swallowed hard. "You also said something about going back to the hospital and about... experiments."

Hogan gasped at the words and his eyes became wide and damp, but he said nothing. He nodded stiffly, frightened, and locked his eyes on the wall.

"Stay with me, mate!" Newkirk's voice took on a note of urgency and his hands gripped Hogan's even tighter. "That's all in the past now." He'd read the information that had come out during the Nuremberg trials, and even the edited versions of some of the things the Nazis had done in the name of "scientific experimentation" had been enough to make him sick. Knowing that Hogan had been subjected to that sort of thing made him both sick and angry at the same time. "They won't get their filthy mitts on you again! They'd have to get by me first, Colonel, and that's just not gonna happen. Not now... not ever."

Somewhere in his mind, Hogan noted that Newkirk had reverted to calling him "Colonel," and he felt slightly more in control. He let out a shuddering breath and forced himself to inhale and exhale calmly. "They strapped me down…. They brought me to the hospital and they…" Hogan stopped, finding himself unable to speak. He shook his head. "I don't remember, Peter," he whispered. "I still don't remember. And I don't want to."

"I know, Rob. Nobody wants to have to think about something like that ever again. But you're not alone, not as long as you've got ol' Peter Newkirk on your side."

For the first time, Hogan looked Newkirk straight in the eye. "What if these aren't nightmares, Newkirk? What if they're part of my lost memories?" His look of desperation returned as his breathing quickened. "_I don't want these to be memories!_"

"If they are, gov'nor, we'll get through them one day at a time. I promise you that."

"What the hell's wrong with me?" Hogan asked shakily. "Please, God, please stop these nightmares." Then, as though suddenly aware that he had expressed his fears out loud, Hogan seemed to force himself into the present. "I'm tired," he said softly, tilting his head back and blinking wearily at the ceiling. "I need to go to sleep." He slipped his hands out of Newkirk's grasp and stood up sluggishly. He looked at his loyal friend, still seated on the recliner. "I'm sorry it's been such a crummy visit for you. You'd have more fun at Barton's party."

Newkirk stood up and nodded. "Don't sweat it, mate. You go on back to bed now, and don't worry about me none, I'll be just fine." He made himself smile a little for Hogan's benefit. "Besides, I've already got plans for how to liven up that particular bash."

Hogan offered a small smile in the darkness. "Good. I was counting on you not to disappoint me."


	3. By the Light of a New Day

No ownership of the _Hogan's Heroes_ characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to wordybirds... Thanks...

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Every difficulty slurred over will be a ghost to disturb your repose later on.

—Frederic Chopin

**Chapter Three**

**By the Light of a New Day**

Newkirk was greeted the next morning by a fully set table with toast and eggs and bacon waiting for him. Hogan pulled his head out of the refrigerator holding a jug of orange juice and looking more refreshed than Newkirk would have expected of him.

"Good morning!" Hogan said cheerfully. He took in Newkirk's look of amazement. "Turnabout is fair play, isn't it?" he asked. "You had lunch ready for me yesterday; the least I could do was return the favor at breakfast."

"Ah... right." Newkirk nodded. This wasn't what he expected after last night, but in a way, it was. Hogan had always been one to put the best face on a bad situation, so this was right in character for his friend. He glanced at the table and smiled. "It looks good, Rob. Just one thing missing." If this was the way Hogan wanted to start the day, Newkirk would go along. At least for now.

"Let me guess—tea." Without waiting for an answer, Hogan turned back to the countertop and brought over a steaming cup of the brew. "I know I didn't strain it myself; you'll have to make do with a teabag. But at least I got you some." Hogan shook his head as he waved Newkirk into a chair and put the cup in front of him. "What you see in this weak cup of hot water is beyond me."

Newkirk could feel Hogan's eyes boring into him as he accepted the man's offering. _Are you trying to see what I'll say after last night?_ Newkirk wondered. "You amaze me sometimes, gov'nor," he said. "After all that fuss you Yanks kicked up a few years back about tea and all." He grinned, shook his head and took a seat. "I was really getting after you about making a spread like this and not having any kippers. But you didn't have to go to the bother of getting tea; I can get along without it for a few days, you know."

Hogan's forced light-heartedness was almost as difficult to watch as his raw pain of the night before. To Newkirk, it was just another demonstration of how badly the nightmares were affecting his friend, and he could tell by Hogan's carefully measured moves and looks that the American was doing all he could to avoid any mention of the encounter. So Newkirk started in on his meal, smiling cheerfully.

"What, and let you go back and tell Le Beau that I didn't learn anything from him after all that time? Not a chance." Hogan sat down across from his friend, took a mouthful of eggs and a swig of the coffee he had made for himself and said, "I need to go to a meeting this morning. Won't be long, but I'm afraid I can't get out of it. Will you be all right on your own again?" Hogan caught Newkirk staring at him with those knowing blue eyes that could probe so deeply without the Englishman having to say a word. For the briefest moment, Hogan felt a surge of panic and desperation. To fight it down, he looked back to his breakfast and shook his head. "I'm being a pretty lousy host. You're better off running straight to Carter's and Kinch's and leaving me in the dust. Jillian will never forgive me for abandoning you. What was it she called me—a workaholic?" Hogan let out a laugh. "Work is good for the soul." _And for the mind… to help push things away I'd rather not see._

_And your soul is crying right now, gov'nor. So you're going to work to forget. But you're not going to push me out of here yet; you'll not be on your own. _"None of that, Rob. I came over knowing you'd have things to do, and that's fine. I'll be seeing the others in due time. Besides, Kinch couldn't get this week off from work, and Andrew's got exams to take right now. Can you imagine it? Our Carter handing out pills instead of detonator caps?" Newkirk chuckled and took a sip of his tea. "Don't worry, I'll tell Louis that you didn't starve me to death. As far as my dear darling wife goes, that's rather a case of the pot calling the kettle, if you follow me. It took both me and her supervisor nearly a month to convince her that the hospital wouldn't fall apart if she took a couple of weeks off."

Hogan smiled gratefully for Newkirk's unspoken promise to leave last night where it was—in the past. "Well, you never know—maybe it would." Hogan took a couple of fast, final swallows of breakfast and stood up. "The Pentagon won't fall apart without me, but my brass will get kicked if I don't show up on time. I'll be back in plenty of time for the party—if there's one thing the government does right, it's leave room for celebrations in peace time."

Newkirk raised his cup in a mock salute before taking a sip. "I can hardly wait."

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Newkirk sat in the living room, finishing a few minor alterations on a dark brown suit jacket he'd brought along as a gift for Hogan. He'd done the cutting and sewing himself, by hand, before leaving England. After the General had left for work, Newkirk had ducked into Hogan's room and checked the final size against one of the uniform jackets he'd found in a closet. "At least I was right about that, wasn't I, gov'nor? I gave you a few inches extra from the last set of measurements I'd made back at camp, figuring that after the war, you'd get back some of the weight you lost while being a POW."

As he started setting the buttons, Newkirk laughed softly. "Talking to yourself again, mate? I've always heard that's a sure sign of madness, but then, there's no one around to tell on you, is there?"

The Englishman's mood changed as he thought about the man he'd made this jacket for. _Rob's sure having a rough go of things right now. And of course, he probably hasn't told a soul. No surprise there, really. He needs someone to talk to, or else he's gonna go off the deep end—and soon, judging from what happened last night. Thank God I had Jillian there to help me through my own rough patch last year. No matter if I woke up screaming, crying or fighting mad, she was always there for me. _

_Just like I'm going to be here for him._

Final button in place, Newkirk took the jacket and sewing kit back to his room, then returned to the living room and reached for the telephone, settling back into his chair as he dialed a long string of numbers. A couple of operator connections later, a light Scottish voice came on the line, bringing a fond smile to his face.

"Hello, love. Have you missed me yet?"

"Peter! Of course I've missed you! How are things over there?"

"Oh, fine, fine. Rob's got some staff work to do today, so I'm making a mess of the place for him while he's gone."

Newkirk tried to keep his tone light and the conversation pleasant as they spoke of his trip, but his wife wasn't fooled, and after he rambled on a bit more, she abruptly changed the subject. "All right, Peter, as much as I love hearing your voice, you didn't call just to talk about your flight. What's wrong, love?"

The soft sigh and the moment of silence that was Newkirk's reply confirmed her statement. "You remember the problems I went through last winter? Not sleeping, and being afraid to go to sleep because I knew I'd wake up screaming? Rob seems to be having the same kind of problem." Newkirk went on to describe what he'd seen and heard over the past two nights. "I'm afraid for him, Jillian. He went through so much more than any of the rest of us; the bloody Krauts singled him out for 'special treatment' on several occasions. I don't know the details, but I've seen the results."

Static crackled on the phone line in the long silence before Jillian responded. "I know you want to help him, Peter, but from what you've just told me, you could be getting in way over your head on this. Remember, we finally had to turn to professionals to get you past your problems, and you may need to get Rob the same kind of help."

"He's not gonna go for that, love. You should have seen him this morning, acting like nothing's wrong. I might have believed it except for what I saw last night." Newkirk shook his head. "He doesn't want to even discuss it."

"Neither did you."

A pause. "I know. I also know I'm glad that you insisted." Another long silence. "Jillian... I may have to extend my trip a while. I can't even think of leaving until I know Rob's gonna be all right."

"Peter, I know what he means to you, he's the _gov'nor_, after all, and he needs your help, even if he's not ready to admit it." Jillian's voice seemed to falter, but Newkirk couldn't tell if it was her or the phone line causing the change. Still, her next statement was stronger than ever. "You wouldn't be the Peter Newkirk I married if you didn't take care of your friends. Stay there as long as you need to, but remember that you still have to come home to _me_."

"What did I do to deserve you, love?"

"That's a woman's secret, darling. I'll never let you know that one."

They talked a bit longer, then Newkirk hung up the phone with a smile. He leaned back, closed his eyes and could see the tiny red-haired Highland lass he'd married last summer. He'd surprised himself by proposing to her, and she'd surprised him even more by accepting, but he would be forever grateful that she had.

_-----_ ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Newkirk checked the fit of his uniform one last time in the mirror, brushing his hand along the sleeve of the RAF dress blue jacket until his fingers came to rest on the silver-worked emblem of his rank. The familiar Corporal's chevrons had been replaced by the "Lion and Unicorn" of a Warrant Officer. He shook his head and grinned at himself. _That and a bloody row of ribbons. The gov'nor's gonna call me out for impersonatin' an officer, even if it's only as a non-commissioned one—that is if he don't fall down laughing first. I'd have it coming, after all the cheek I gave him about bein' one himself. But I wouldn't mind seeing him laugh after last night, either_. Newkirk picked up his cap and overcoat and headed for the living room.

When Newkirk emerged, Hogan was waiting near the door, overcoat in hand, already ready to go. He took one look at his friend and broke into a huge smile. "Looking mighty colorful there, Warrant Officer Newkirk, sir," he said, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Shall I have someone carry your ribbons for you, sir? They do get so terribly heavy after awhile."

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Oh do me a favor, mate. You think I took this willingly?" He shook his head. "They were handing out the promotions after we all got back to London, and if you recall, I told them what they could do with mine. Then you lot all told me that if I didn't take mine, none of you were taking yours. Kinda left me stuck for it, as I couldn't do that to any of you."

Hogan let out a small laugh. "You deserved it. You _all_ did. There was no way I was going to let you brush the kudos aside. Besides, I think you just reacted out of shock—getting that silver on your sleeve means someone actually noticed what we did, and that's enough to give _any one of us_ a heart attack."

"You're not kidding there. I thought Andrew was gonna faint in the middle of the ceremony when they called him up in front." Newkirk set his cap on his head and pulled on his coat. _All joking aside, I'm only wearing this uniform tonight for you, gov'nor. I hope you understand how proud I was to serve with you then, and how proud I am to be your friend now._ "Let's go, then. There's 'fashionably late,' then there's 'where have you been?', and we'd best fall into the first category rather than the second."

Hogan shook his head teasingly as he opened the front door and a cold gust of night air rushed in to meet them "Peter, my friend, that sounds dangerously close to conformity. You've turned into an officer after all."

"Bloody fine way to talk to a friend… _sir_."


	4. How Not To Polish Brass

No ownership of the _Hogan's Heroes_ characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to Wordybirds. Thanks.

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A little rebellion every now and then is a good thing.

—Thomas Jefferson

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**Chapter Four**

**How Not To Polish Brass**

Hogan and Newkirk stood in the doorway looking at a sea of chocolate brown uniforms, glittering evening gowns, and well-dressed attendants. "I'm not sure I should be here, gov'nor," Newkirk said under his breath, suddenly unsure of himself.

Hogan grinned and pulled two _hors d'oeuvres_ off a passing tray. "Don't be ridiculous," Hogan answered, handing one to Newkirk. "You outshine half the people here, internally if not externally." He plunged into the room, leaving his friend no choice but to come with him if he didn't want to be left on his own.

Newkirk took a deep breath and dove in. His blue and silver RAF uniform drew him many curious glances as he followed Hogan across the room. He felt completely out of place among so many high-ranking officers, but was determined to put on a good front and not embarrass his friend.

Hogan had been almost immediately greeted by someone with more ribbons on his chest than Newkirk thought it was possible to earn, and marveled for a moment at how at ease his old commanding officer seemed. But then, he thought, whether Hogan was comfortable or not could hardly be determined by his outward appearance; even when in a room full of Nazis who could have him taken out and shot at any time, the American had always seemed completely in control. _We saw a bit of the truth behind that last night, though, didn't we?_ Newkirk thought regretfully. _We never knew what the war was really doing to you, gov'nor_.

Far too soon for Newkirk's taste, Hogan turned to his friend while he continued speaking to the officer. "And let me introduce Warrant Officer Peter Newkirk. He and I were both guests of the Luftwaffe at Stalag 13. I didn't want to leave him behind this evening; that would make me a most ungracious host. Peter, this is General Kendrick Dennington—we used to share office space at the Pentagon," Hogan said with a smile.

Dennington nodded at Newkirk and smiled. "How do you do?" Then he waved a thumb in Hogan's direction. "Office space! What Hogan means is that he piled his junk on my desk while he created an even bigger mess on his own! I couldn't wait for him to be promoted so I'd only have my own mess to contend with."

Hogan demurred. "I was never the bookkeeper type, Ken," he said.

"No, sir." Newkirk grinned. "The General here always _did_ need a recording secretary to keep his correspondence from stacking up." _"The General." Cor, that still sounds odd. Glad I didn't botch that up an' call him "Colonel."_

"The men I worked with were a lot more than that," Hogan said. Then, changing the subject, Hogan asked, "Has General Barton showed up yet?"

Dennington shook his head. "I came as late as I could, but he still isn't here. How's that for form? Late for your own retirement party?"

Hogan shrugged. "Maybe he's excited about brass parties as you are."

"No such luck," Dennington answered. "He'll take those pats on the back any time."

"Don't say that too loudly, Ken, or you might find yourself sharing my office again," Hogan said with a smile.

"Heaven help us all—I'll attend as many parties they want me to—just don't let me suffer that again!"

Hogan raised an eyebrow playfully. Then, noting his guest's silence, he said, "If you'll excuse us, Ken, I'd better mingle a bit."

"Oh, by all means—mingling is compulsory!" Dennington said with a laugh.

Hogan steered them both away from the General and toward a passing tray. "Don't be so shy; you have every right to be here," he said as he picked up two glasses and handed one to Newkirk.

The Englishman accepted the glass and took a sip by reflex. "I'm all right, gov'nor. Just not used to being on this side of the serving tray at a thing like this is all." Newkirk gave Hogan a sly grin. "I do have to say, though, that I never knew that staff officers had things so tough as to have to share offices."

Hogan shrugged. "I wasn't the only one promoted after we got home, you know. They didn't know what to do with us all." He grinned. "And I think they didn't want to leave me unsupervised. Poor Ken didn't know what he was in for!"

Newkirk glanced at Dennington, then back at Hogan. "Poor bloke," he said, his face sober but his eyes giving away the joke, "being stuck with the likes of you."

Hogan's own sense of playfulness couldn't resist making an appearance. "Yeah, well, I've had my share of being stuck with some pretty unsavory characters," he said with a light jab to Newkirk's arm. He winked, and Newkirk smirked. "Heads up," Hogan said suddenly with only a brief glance toward the door. "Here's the guest of honor now."

Aloysius Barton worked his way around the room, pausing to shake hands and speak briefly with many of his guests. _Well, here he comes. Time to go on stage, I reckon. This is about to get real interesting_. Newkirk took one last sip from his glass and deposited it on the tray of a passing waiter.

Hogan also handed off his glass and then drew himself to attention as the now-Lieutenant General approached. Barton nodded acknowledgement. "At ease," he said. "Good evening, Hogan."

"Good evening, General," Hogan said, relaxing. "Very nice of you to have me here on this special occasion." He turned slightly toward Newkirk, who waited quietly at his side. "You may remember Warrant Officer Peter Newkirk? He was one of my crew at Stalag 13."

Newkirk came to attention, a gesture that, judging from the look on the General's face, the American hadn't been expecting to see. "A pleasure to see you again, General."

Barton let out a small snort as he looked the Englishman over. "I didn't realize you thought it was a pleasure the _first_ time."

Hogan's eyes darted back and forth between the two men. He was clearly out of some private loop here. Still, he decided it was wiser not to speak up just yet.

"It wasn't." Newkirk's eyes went cold for a moment. "In fact, General, I thought you were a royal pain at the time. With all due respect. Sir."

Hogan jerked himself into action. "Uh—what the Warrant Officer means, General, is that it took a lot of maneuvering to organize your release to the Allies in exchange for von Heinke. The Field Marshall wasn't an easy man to fool in a place like Stalag 13." He shot a concerned warning look at Newkirk.

"Relax, Hogan. I know exactly what the Warrant Officer means." Barton locked eyes with the Englishman as he spoke. "He means that I was a pain in the ass back then, and frankly, he's right. This isn't the first time he's told me this, either." The General finally looked at Hogan, and smiled. "I must say that I've never had such an effective dressing-down as this young man handed me that day just before the Germans drove me out of your camp."

Hogan breathed out, an almost audible sigh of relief. "Oh," he said, "well, he's never been known not to speak his mind, sir."

Newkirk grinned and held his hand out to Barton. "_Now_ it's a pleasure to see you, sir."

"Thank God for that," Hogan said under his breath.

Barton shook Newkirk's hand and laughed. "You know, Hogan, if I wasn't retiring next week, I'd see about stealing this fellow from the Brits and adding him to my own staff. I might have had to call him on the carpet every week, but at least I would've had one man around that was willing to tell me the truth when I needed to hear it."

Hogan smiled graciously, relieved. "That he would, sir. The General deserves all the accolades heading his way as he retires, sir."

"I daresay when your turn comes, Hogan, you'll be in for a lot more back-slapping than I will," Barton replied. Hogan lowered his head in modesty. "And as for _you_," Barton said, turning to Newkirk. Newkirk held his breath. "Well, I think maybe you'll be in for a few distinctions yourself."

"Not me, sir." Newkirk nodded toward Hogan. "The gov'nor here is the one that deserves the distinctions, as you put it. He's one of a kind, especially as officers go, General, and it was a pleasure and a privilege to serve under his command." The Englishman paused, and grinned. "Even if we weren't in the same bloody army."

Hogan shook his head. "No man accomplishes much alone, Newkirk," he said firmly. "Not the way we worked back at Stalag 13."

"You're both far too modest," Barton said. "I owe you my life, Hogan. You _and_ your men. And when everything you accomplished in Germany finally comes out, I'll be the first one singing your praises." A touch from behind made Barton turn. Another officer waiting to congratulate him. "Excuse me, gentlemen. Enjoy the evening, won't you?"

The men exchanged pleasantries and turned away from the General. Hogan took a small snack from the one of the many trays passing by and said in between bites, "You know, Newkirk, you really know how to give a man heart failure."

The Englishman helped himself from a tray and grinned. "Told you I had plans for livening things up a bit, didn't I?" He polished the snack off in a couple of bites and went on. "Have to say that the look on Barton's face was worth it."

"I hope it was half as good as the one on mine."

"Priceless, mate, priceless." Newkirk gave Hogan a friendly nudge with an elbow and laughed. Taking a look around the room, his attention was drawn by a man standing near a small group, listening but not taking part in their conversation. "Oh, hang on a minute. I see someone I'd like to say hello to."

"Now you've _really_ got me worried."

Before Hogan could say anything else, Newkirk moved next to the rather portly officer and tapped him on the shoulder. As the man turned, the Englishman grinned and said, "Hey, Pop! Got a cigarette for an old mate?"

Hogan slapped a hand over his eyes when he realized Newkirk was addressing General Tillman Walters. Walters had come through Stalag 13 disguised as a Corporal, and the prisoners had all wondered why a man of such an advanced age would be flying for the Allies in the first place. Hogan himself had addressed Walters as "Pop," until he found out the man actually outranked him and was in camp to get Hogan's men to place a navigational beacon where Allied bombers could use it to find their target. After that, Walters and Hogan had worked well together, with Hogan showing Walters the respect his rank demanded. Having Newkirk recall the original mess with the moniker "Pop" yet again almost gave him a coronary.

But Walters didn't seem phased. He raised his eyebrows, then smiled and held out his hand. "I told you, don't call me Pop!" he said with a laugh.

Newkirk caught the look on Hogan's face and laughed as he shook Walters's hand. "Beggin' the General's pardon, but 'General' seems a pretty formal way to speak to a fellow you've shared a mess kit with. Especially when you thought the fellow was only another Corporal at the time."

Walters nodded. "Well, we were all Corporals once," he said, still smiling. He nodded at Hogan as the younger man came to attention. "At ease, Hogan. How are you?" he asked.

Hogan relaxed and finally smiled. "Very well, General, thanks. I'm having a hard time keeping this fella in line, though," he said with a nod toward Newkirk. "He keeps insisting on taking the brass to task. He's going to cause an international incident before the night is over!"

Newkirk gave Hogan a smug grin. "You started it, mate. Calling me a ruddy conformist and sayin' I'd turned into a bleedin' officer and all." He crossed his arms over his chest, and rocked a bit on his heels, giving Hogan a smug grin. "I still say that's no way to speak to a friend."

Hogan shook his head, amused at the playful mocking on his own frequent way of standing. "I surrender, already. Please, no more!" He looked at Walters. "You're looking well, sir."

Walters looked from Newkirk to Hogan and smiled as he shook his head. "Good try, Hogan, but I don't think you'll put a lid on him that easily." The General glanced around at the people nearby who were listening, but trying to act as if they weren't. "Let's take this someplace else before you two _do_ cause an international incident."

"There's a terrace just outside those doors, sir," Hogan said, nodding toward a large set of French doors across the room.

"Sounds perfect." Walters nodded and lead the way onto the terrace. Once outside, he turned to the others, giving them each a long look. "I want to say this again to both of you: thank you, for everything you did back in that POW camp. I don't just mean the way you helped me accomplish my mission, I mean _everything_ you did."

Hogan absorbed the praise, full of pride in his men, but uncomfortable accepting it himself. "No thanks are necessary, sir. I had an extraordinary group of men. They did the work they were told to do."

The look Newkirk gave his former commanding officer was one of pride, but the smile playing around his face hinted at something more. "He always gets like this, Pop. We can't seem to get it through to the stubborn Yank that there never would have _been_ anything going on at Stalag 13 without him." The smile broke out on Newkirk's face as he continued. "Now granted, without us, _he'd_ have had a rough go of it... but we all needed him to make it happen."

Hogan cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed. "You didn't need me as much as I let you think you did; job security, you know," he joked weakly. "You all handled things perfectly when you needed to. So, General, I see you brought your wife with you. Is Mrs. Walters expecting a turn on the dance floor tonight?"

Walters laughed. "You'll never change, will you, Hogan? Let someone try to say something nice to you, and the first thing you do is find something else to talk about. Okay, then. Yes, she is. In fact, she's threatened to go home early and leave me hanging if you didn't show up tonight!"

Hogan nodded quickly, grateful for a way out. "Then I'd better make sure I don't let that happen, General. Mrs. Walters is always a pleasure to dance with. If you'll excuse me."

Hogan disappeared back inside, leaving Walters looking after him, shaking his head. "He's not fooling me. My wife is a terrible dancer. What is it about that man that he just can't take a compliment?"

Newkirk didn't respond at first as he watched Hogan's retreat. "He wears his heart on his sleeve, sir. The gov'nor is one of the most open, honest men I've ever met, but at the same time, he's also the most private man I know. I've seen him hit rock bottom because he thought that he did something to wreck a mission. Then I've seen nothing more than a single unexpected word of praise lift him so high he didn't need his plane to fly." The Englishman shook his head slowly. "I don't know what it is about Colonel Hogan, sir, but I'd follow him to Hell and back without a second thought."

"A rare quality to find in a man. And in the one who follows him. The free world was damned lucky to have you both. I can see now how you were so successful." Walters grinned. "But if you demote him to Colonel again, there are some other Stars out there who might have something to say about it!"

A flash of anger went through Newkirk's eyes as he gave Walters a hard stare. "Look here, General. The gov'nor deserves every bit of brass and baubles you and your lot could ever give him, but to every man that served with him in that damned prison camp, he's the _Colonel_. He paid for those ruddy eagles of his with three long years of sweat and blood, sharing the freezing cold and the lousy food when he could have demanded better because of his rank." Newkirk looked away for a moment, visibly getting a grip on his emotions before saying anything else. "A demotion? No, sir. He'll always be our _Colonel _Hogan. If you can't understand that, well... it's because you weren't there."

Walters nodded thoughtfully. At first taken aback by Newkirk's tirade, the Englishman's words nonetheless made sense to him. "No offense intended, Newkirk. Hogan's clearly a remarkable man. Your loyalty is a tribute to that. A man should consider himself lucky to have people like you to stand beside him." As Newkirk's tension seemed to slowly seep out of his body, Walters smiled. "Now let's see if we can't rescue _your Colonel_ from my wife's feet—she'll step all over him before the night is over, and he'll have to limp from lady to lady for the rest of the evening!"

Walters's words dissolved the last of the anger that had swept through Newkirk at the very idea that calling Hogan "Colonel" would be an insult. "Right, sir. No offence taken, General." The Englishman rubbed his hands together against the cold and nodded. "Let's get inside and rescue _General_ Hogan before I freeze to death out here."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan handed the keys to Newkirk with a yawn. "If you're sure you can drive on the right side of the road…" he said. He stretched. "I didn't think I'd get so tired dancing with a bunch of Generals' wives."

"You mean the _wrong_ side of the road, don't you?" Newkirk smiled as he unlocked the car. "I must say that you cut a pretty wide path on the dance floor tonight. Never saw the like of birds flocking around one man that way before."

"You didn't do so badly yourself," Hogan said. "I think Mrs. Walters ripped a hole in my leg with those high heels of hers, though." He got into the car and lay his head back on the seat. "They might flock like birds, but some of them stomp like elephants."

"Good thing you've got the services of a professional gentleman's tailor then, isn't it? Can't say I can do much for the hole in your leg, but I can have the hole in your trousers sewn up just like that!" Newkirk snapped his fingers for emphasis as he pulled out of the parking lot.

"That's good," Hogan said, yawning again. "I know I promised you a drive out to the country tomorrow morning, but I think we might both sleep in, eh? We'll still have time before you leave next week."

"About that, gov'nor..." Newkirk's voice trailed off as he searched for the words he wanted to say. "I can stay on awhile—as long as you need me here, in fact."

Hogan furrowed his brow. "Need you?"

Newkirk nodded as he kept his eyes on the road. "Yes, Rob. I've kept my silence so far because that's the way you wanted it, but…" A long pause. "How long have you been up walking the floor all night long?"

Hogan shifted uncomfortably in the seat. "Not long," he said vaguely. "A couple of weeks." He sat up straight. "Look, it'll all go away soon, I'm sure of it. I've just had a lot on my mind lately."

_Weeks. It's worse than I thought_. Newkirk took a firmer grip on the wheel to mask the shudder that went through him. "I don't think so." He spoke softly. "We've all had our share of nightmares about what happened, even though none of us want to talk about it or even admit it. But we all have to, eventually, or it'll keep tearing at us from inside until it drives us over the edge." Newkirk's voice dropped to a whisper. "From what I saw last night, Rob... you're nearly there now."

Hogan said nothing for a moment, then shook his head. "I can't, Peter," he said finally, his voice low and stressed. "I can't talk about what I don't remember."

Newkirk looked over at Hogan just long enough to catch his eye. "We'll get you through this, gov'nor. Just remember this: no matter what happens, no matter what it takes, I'm here beside you."

"I don't expect you to fight my demons for me; you must have enough of your own." Hogan looked out to the road. "Turn left at the next corner." He concentrated hard on the snow that was beginning to fall. The snowflakes were always so delicate. So peaceful…

The view through the windshield looked anything but peaceful to the man in the driver's seat. The snow was falling faster as they drove through the night, and it hindered vision as it covered the roads. Slowing to approach the turn Hogan had indicated, Newkirk was shocked to see a car sliding around the corner ahead, only to come barreling down the road in his lane. Swearing sharply, the Englishman spun the steering wheel, dodging into the left-hand lane to avoid a head-on collision. He succeeded in that, only to feel the car being jerked around as the other vehicle clipped the rear fender as it went speeding by.

Newkirk yanked the wheel hand-over-hand as he fought the car, but all hope of regaining control was lost when it hit a patch of ice, slid off the road and slammed into a tree.


	5. Descent into Darkness

No ownership of the _Hogan's Heroes_ characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to Wordybirds... Thanks.

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The only courage that matters is the kind that gets you from one moment to the next.

— Mingnon McLaughlin

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**Chapter Five**

**Descent Into Darkness**

Newkirk came to when a gust of cold air blew snow into his face. He tried to sit up, but stopped when his head began to spin. "Blimey... what happened?" He took a deep breath and forced himself upright, bringing up a hand to wipe a trickle of wetness from his face. Frowning at the sticky feeling on his fingertips, he opened his eyes to see that it had been blood he'd wiped away. Everything came rushing back into his mind at that point: the car sliding off the road, and Hogan shouting something he didn't quite hear just before the collision with the tree. Newkirk turned toward the passenger side of the car and was stunned to see that the door was open and Hogan was nowhere to be seen.

"Rob! Where are you?" Newkirk called out as he scrambled for the open door. The movement caused all manner of sharp pains to go screaming across his nerves, but his fear of what might have happened to Hogan made him ignore it all. He crawled out of the car and pulled himself to his feet, looking desperately for any sign of his friend. _Where are you, gov'nor? I can't have lost you now... not after everything we've been through together…._

After a few minutes of anxious searching, Newkirk finally caught sight of a dark-clad form sprawled near some brush. "Oh, God... Rob... please… I don't know what I'll do if you're..." He stumbled to Hogan's side, dropping to his knees as he checked for a pulse. When his fingertips touched the slow, steady beat at the base of his friend's throat, Newkirk finally gave in to the tears that had been stinging his eyes since he had crawled out of the wreckage. _Dear God... I know I don't have a chat with You as often as I should, but could You overlook that just this once and help me take care of my friend Rob? I'm not asking anything for myself... but he needs Your help. Please._

Hogan lay awkwardly on his back, falling snow already gathering on his dark overcoat. Newkirk gently wiped the snow from his friend's face, then checked him over as best he could. "You know, gov'nor, we sure could use a medic like Joe Wilson about now. He'd know what to do right off, but I'm all you've got... and I've already made a shocking mess of things so far tonight."

Not wanting to move the man any more than he had to, the Englishman carefully ran his hands over his friend's unconscious form. There was a bruise forming on the side of Hogan's head and a long, bloody cut at the temple, but nothing else obviously broken or bleeding. "Times like this make me wish I'd been smart enough to actually take one of those first-aid classes Joe was always teaching."

Newkirk leaned forward to clear the snow from Hogan's face again, but pulled up short when a sharp pain shot through his chest. Gasping for breath, the Englishman wrapped his arms around himself tightly until it subsided. "Cor! Looks like I've stuffed it up a bit for myself as well, Colonel. But don't you worry; I'll take care of you." Newkirk looked back toward the road, suddenly realizing he hadn't heard a car go by since he'd come to.

The snow was coming down harder as Newkirk made his decision. He began unbuttoning his overcoat as he studied Hogan's still face. "I wish to God you'd wake up and give me an order, sir. Any order at all. But since it doesn't look like you're going to, I'll have to take charge here, gov'nor, and you bloody well know how I hate doing that." Newkirk peeled his coat off, wincing as his movements brought him even more pain. "I'm gonna have to go for help, sir, and I can't carry you along with me. Since you've left me in command, I'm giving you a direct order. Hang in there until I get back, Colonel. Understood?"

Newkirk shook out his royal blue overcoat and laid it over Hogan's chest, being careful to tuck the American's arms under it as well. He pulled the collar up to keep the snow off the pale face of his friend and stood up. "Right then, gov'nor, I'm off. I'll be back before you have a chance to miss me, I promise. You just make sure you follow orders for once, sir." The Englishman shivered in the cold as he turned away, and headed for the road.

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The world was spinning. No, _it_ wasn't spinning, _he_ was spinning. Well, his head was. Or at least that's what it felt like. He should open his eyes. But it was too much effort, and besides, if everything was on a tilt now, with his eyes closed, what would it be like if he opened them?

Hogan let the confused rambling go through his brain without paying it much real attention. His mind was too busy finding every little spot in his body that hurt. His head, his chest, his arm, his side. Where was he? What had happened to him? He had a vague memory of some kind of freefall. Had he bailed out? No, no… the war was over… or was that all just a dream?

Lying on his back, Hogan felt cold and unable to move. He wanted to call out, but he couldn't convince his mouth to open other than to let out a few gasps as his head pounded and his nerves screamed in indignation. He listened, but could hear nothing but his own rasping breath, his blood rushing past his temples, his low moans of pain. _I've been shot down…._

How long before someone found him here? Before he was caught? Before he was taken prisoner? Cloudiness started to muddle his already confused thoughts as his mind hurtled him back toward a time he was trying desperately to forget and oblivion closed in. _It was a dream. It was all a dream…._

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Newkirk paced the floor in the waiting room of a small local hospital, his hands jammed into the pockets of his bedraggled overcoat. He hurt all over, and was having a little trouble breathing after his walk in the cold and snowy night. About a half mile away from the accident scene, the Englishman had found a house where he'd been able to call for help. Normally, a half-mile hike wouldn't have been a problem, but this time he'd had to deal with his own injuries, the cold and his fears for Hogan's life.

Those fears were what kept Newkirk on his feet and pacing across the tiny room. He turned and started back the way he'd come. _At least it seems to help keep me from going absolutely insane waiting for word from the doctors. Maybe that's why the gov'nor spent so much time walking the floor back at Stalag 13._

Another turn, this one a little too fast, caused Newkirk to stop and wrap his arms across his chest once again as he waited for the pain to subside. _Must be a few cracked ribs causing this, but I'm not gonna mention it just yet. There's only one doctor here tonight, and Rob needs him far more than I do._

Still another turn brought the Englishman around to face the door as it opened. General Walters came in, shaking snow off his peaked cap and coat. Catching sight of Newkirk, the General crossed the room, concern clearly showing on his face. "I got here as fast as I could. What happened? You didn't say much when you called."

Newkirk nodded slowly. "I lost control of the bloody car on the way home and cracked it up; the local peelers have already been onto me about it. The Colonel's hurt, and I don't know how badly, but he was still out when they took him into the examination room." He sighed and shook his head. "It's been almost an hour now, and they haven't told me a thing yet, other than I'm not allowed to be in there with him."

Walters frowned. "We'll have to find out as soon as we can. And who's looked after _you_?" he asked, eyeing Newkirk suspiciously.

Shrugging slightly, Newkirk turned away from the General to resume his pacing. "I'm fine, sir."

"Don't be stupid, boy. You've got a bump on your head the size of a golf ball. A nurse can look after that. And you're hugging yourself like you've lost your teddy bear—probably been pretty banged up, too. Hogan wouldn't be happy if you let yourself go." He came up and steered Newkirk away from the door. "Let's find someone—we can find out about Hogan and get you fixed up at the same time. Now where's the doctor?"

"Easy there, Pop. There's only one doctor on just now, and he's with the Colonel where he should be."

But Walters was determined for both the men. "Then let's find out what's going on with Hogan. And then we'll find out about you. And you can consider that an order."

Newkirk gave Walters a look, and smiled slightly despite the situation. "As I've told the gov'nor, so I'll tell you: we ain't even in the same Army, mate."

A door at the far end of the room opened, and a nurse came in. "Oh, there you are, Mr. Newkirk. Come along, and no excuses now."

"Just a minute, miss. I'm not going anywhere until I see the Col—I mean General Hogan. So you just lead on to where he is, right?" Newkirk gave the nurse a pleading look that was at odds with the firmness of his tone.

"We just got the General settled in his room, but if it'll get you to cooperate, I'll let you have a minute with him." The nurse smiled gently and looked at Walters. "He's been like this since they got here."

Walters shook his head. "Try bunking with him for a couple of days." His tone turned serious. "How's Hogan?"

"I'll have to let Doctor Collins speak to you about that, sir." The nurse led them down a long hall, stopping outside a door that she held open as Newkirk slid past her. The lights in the room were turned down, but they clearly showed Hogan lying on the bed, covers pulled up to his shoulders. An intravenous tube snaked its way to his left wrist from the bottle hanging nearby, and the bandage wrapped around his head only served to accent the paleness of his face.

Newkirk went to the bed, staring at Hogan for a long moment before he reached out with a shaking hand. "Rob?" he whispered. "Rob... I'm so sorry I've done this to you." He took Hogan's hand in his own, gripping it firmly.

Newkirk was surprised to feel a light pressure on his hand. He stared hard at Hogan's face and was rewarded with a tiny frown, then a couple of soft groans. For just the briefest second Hogan's lips parted and he sighed, then his grip loosened and he was still again, his face no longer giving any indication that he was remotely aware of his surroundings. Newkirk came in close to Hogan's ear. "Rest now, Rob. You've earned it."

Releasing Hogan's hand, Newkirk rubbed his eyes and turned to the door, where he saw that the doctor had joined the others waiting in the hall. Heading out there himself, he addressed himself to the doctor. "He tried to come round there, for just a moment. That's a good sign, isn't it?"

The doctor nodded. "Yes, it is. I understand that you're concerned about him, but now you need to be looked after. I'm sorry we couldn't get to you sooner, but the General was in worse condition than you."

"I'm not worried about me, Doctor. What about him? What's wrong, and why isn't he waking up yet?" Newkirk glanced back into Hogan's room, then gave the doctor a hard look.

Doctor Collins met Newkirk's stare without flinching. "Calm down, Warrant Officer. I spent four years dealing with servicemen just like you, so don't try pulling rank on me like that. Come with me to the exam room, and we can talk along the way." He gestured down the hall, and smiled at Newkirk's look of confusion. "I was stationed near London during the war, and I had as many of you Brits come through my door as I did Americans. I learned to read your insignia out of self-defense."

"Look, I don't want a song and dance, I just want the truth. What's happening to the gov'nor?" Newkirk persisted as he was taken by the arm and moved down the hall.

"General Hogan is suffering from a severe concussion, and to judge from the amount of bruising on his right arm, he's lucky he didn't break it. There's also a fair amount of bruising on his side, from his chest all the way down to his right hip, probably from hitting the ground after being thrown out of the car." The doctor paused. "He also came in with a mild case of hypothermia. It's quite possible, Warrant Officer, that you saved his life by giving him your coat, even if I'm sure you didn't do any favors for yourself."

Newkirk had gone pale as he listened to the doctor's description of Hogan's condition, and he shivered as he imagined his friend's suffering. _I've nearly killed him, haven't I? It's me that put him in that hospital bed, and the doctor's going on about me saving his life?_

Walters frowned at the doctor's report, then at a clearly distressed Newkirk. "Thank you for everything, Doctor," is all he said. "When can we expect to be able to talk to Hogan?"

"That's a question I cannot answer, General. The fact that he responded to this young man's voice is a good sign, but the simple truth is that we can only wait until General Hogan wakes up." Collins nodded to Newkirk as he went on. "Now it's your turn, and no arguments this time. Audrey, would you please get our patient ready?"

This time Newkirk offered no resistance, but it was obvious he was not happy. Walters stepped in as the nurse began to guide him away and spoke softly. "Listen to me, son. You did everything that could be expected, and more, to get the help Hogan needed after the crash. What happened tonight was an accident. You have no reason to blame yourself. Now, _your Colonel_ is a fighter. He'll pull through this; you can bet on it." Walters rested a hand on Newkirk's shoulder, hoping that at least some of what he'd just said had gotten through. "Okay, Doctor Collins, I'll leave you to take care of him, and don't let him give you any more static."

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"Here, let me help get that wet shirt off of you. The doctor said he'd be here in just a minute." Audrey reached up from behind Newkirk to loosen the shirt that had stuck to his back when the snow had melted through his dress coat and sunk into the clothes underneath. She was surprised when he moved away. "Mr. Newkirk?" she said questioningly. "Am I hurting you?"

"Sorry, miss. Didn't realize you were back there." Newkirk glanced at the nurse for a moment, then turned his attention back to undoing his cuffs.

"Here; let me help you with those," Audrey said, coming around to the front of Newkirk and leading him to a chair in the examination room. "You sit down; you've been on your feet long enough for one night." She guided Newkirk into the seat and took over the work of getting the Englishman out of his dress shirt. "You did a good thing tonight," she said as she draped the shirt over the edge of a nearby table. "Careful, don't move like that; you'll put more pressure on your ribs, and I can tell you're having trouble with them by the way you've been breathing, so don't try and hide it."

"Here now, what do you think you're doing?" Newkirk carefully folded his arms across his chest and eyed the nurse. "I've been undressing myself for a while now, and I think I can handle it all right. Besides," he paused and smiled slightly, "my wife might not take too well to it, either."

Audrey paused as she bent down to undo Newkirk's shoelaces. "I'm sure she'd understand," she said softly. Then she continued her work. "These are soaked. You walked a long way in this terrible weather; your General Hogan must be a good friend."

"One of the best friends I have in the world, love. Now look, I can do that myself." The Englishman bent down to pull off his shoe, only to stop suddenly, holding in a moan as pain lanced through his chest.

Audrey immediately put her hand up to Newkirk's shoulder and eased him back so he was sitting up straight. "I'm sure you can. But if I don't make myself useful in here, I'll be out of a job, so you just let me do the work, and you can do the complaining, all right?" First one shoe, then the other, came off, and the socks followed. Brushing her hair out of her face, the nurse then looked up at Newkirk, who was trying hard not to notice what she was doing. "Um, Mr. Newkirk, we're going to have to get you out of those wet pants, too." She pointed over to an examination table, on which there was a cloth gown. "You'll have to wear that for your examination and X-rays," she explained apologetically. Then, more lightly, "However, I took the liberty of finding a pair of pajamas that will probably fit you. I thought they would be warmer than the standard gowns we issue here. And a lot more comfortable, I would say now, considering your level of modesty." She pursed her lips. "Now you can do this easy, or you can do this hard. But you'll be out of those clothes either way. And it's my job as a nurse to make sure you don't do yourself any further injury. So what's it to be?"

"All right, Audrey." Newkirk spoke softly as he got to his feet. "We'll do it your way, then." He slowly began to peel off his undershirt, nodding slightly when she came to help. As he turned his back to her, hoping to preserve some sense of dignity as he unbuckled his belt, images started to play in his mind of the countless times he'd been forced to disrobe in front of others during the war. The weekly runs through the delousing station had been bad enough, but the shudder that ran through Newkirk's body had more to do with memories of being strip-searched by the camp guards or the Gestapo than to do with being cold.

Audrey was taking the balled up, wet undershirt when she saw Newkirk's bare back. "Oh… Mr. Newkirk…" Newkirk froze. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir." Audrey had stopped moving when she saw the Englishman's bare back. Now she hurried about efficiently, concentrating on getting his pants off and his gown on. "Sorry," she said softly, gently pulling his arms through the sleeves of the gown, and trying to stretch his wounded body as little as possible. "I just… didn't expect to see…" She finished pulling the gown down over his body and tied it. "Well... you have scars, sir. You have been hurt before."

"Accidents happen," Newkirk said, his voice roughened by the feelings stirred by his memories. "I'm sorry you had to see that." He allowed Audrey to help him onto the exam table, lying down, closing his eyes and trying to push everything back into some remote corner of his mind so he could try to forget about it again.

"You and the General both seem to have had many… accidents," she said quietly. She let the silence sit between them, then asked gently, "You would have looked after each other, in the war?"

"We did." Newkirk opened his eyes and gently caught one of Audrey's hands as she smoothed a blanket over him. "And I want to thank you for looking after him for me." He smiled softly and brushed the back of her hand with a kiss before letting it go.

Audrey smiled, touched by this apparently detached man's softness. "It will be our privilege, Mr. Newkirk. Now just let _us_ look after _both_ of you for now, all right?"

Newkirk nodded, closed his eyes and allowed himself to finally relax, knowing that his Colonel was in good hands.

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Hogan heard the door to the room shut as though from a distance. He had started to come out of the darkness, but everything felt heavy and dull, and even the mere act of breathing hurt, so it was easier to just leave his eyes shut and let the world swim around him.

Hogan tried to take stock of his situation, a difficult task at best in his current condition. A voice with a distinctly English accent had filtered through a blinding headache. "Rob," it had called to him. Group Captain James Roberts of the RAF called Hogan "Rob." But Roberts was in England, where Hogan had been stationed in the early days of the war. Could he be in England now? Hogan couldn't say for sure. Location was meaningless, and the awareness of time had been replaced by throbs of pain pulsing through him.

He remembered believing that the war had ended and everyone had gone home. But it couldn't be so: Hogan had bailed out over Hamburg and was now suffering terribly. He had a sharp pain in his right arm from when he had gotten wounded while still in his plane, and his chest and stomach hurt from the shrapnel hits so he couldn't take a deep breath, and his head was exploding. He couldn't remember the landing, but now his whole right side was painfully sore. He felt something pushing down on his left arm; a wire or a tube of some sort was putting pressure on his wrist. He was being restricted somehow, and a small thrill of fear raced through him. He had to be in enemy hands, captured. _Tied down_, he thought. _Why have they got me tied down?_

Hogan knew that if he wanted to survive, he had to get away. The hard question was going to be How. Thinking very soon became too exhausting, so he let himself fade away. The end of the war had all been a dream…. This was far too real.


	6. A Fearful Flight

No ownership of the _Hogan's Heroes_ characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, original characters and storyline belongs to wordybirds. Thanks.

* * *

It's like they say: "Smile, perk yourself up. Things could be worse." And you smiled, and perked yourself up, and by golly, things got worse!

—Bob Crane, KNX, 1962

**Chapter Six**

**A Fearful Flight**

Newkirk sat on the bed, watching the nurse leave the room. When the door closed, he opened his hand, looking at the small white pills he'd palmed when she'd offered him a painkiller. _There just might be a painkiller in there, love, but one is shaped different than the others, and I wouldn't put it past the doctor to slip me a Mickey. _He laid them on the side table and eased himself to his feet, wrapping a blanket around himself in lieu of a robe. Newkirk tried to take a deep breath as the simple movements sent pain racing across his nerves, but the tight taping over his ribs made that nearly impossible. He looked longingly at the pills. _Never mind that; I'd hate to guess wrong and pass out in the hall._

Taking a moment to listen at the door, Newkirk stepped into the hall and made his way down to Hogan's room. A quick check showed that the nurse wasn't there, so he went in and looked at his friend. "Rob... what have I done to you?" he whispered, reaching out and taking Hogan's hand as he sank onto a chair next to the bed. "Come on, mate, it's time to wake up now. You can yell at me or ignore me all you want, Rob... just so long as you wake up."

Hogan remained still on the bed, his breathing steady but shallow, his pale face not looking any more like he had been warmed up than when he was brought into the hospital hours ago. Newkirk watched, waited, for a repeat of Hogan's earlier sign of wakefulness, but it was not to be. After a solid minute of staring, the Englishman shook his head. "You're tired, aren't you, gov'nor?" he said softly. "I can't blame you. You've had a rough couple of weeks." He stood up, being careful not to antagonize his own injuries, and with great care adjusted Hogan's pillow and one of the many blankets placed over him to help restore his body's internal temperature. "There, that's a bit better," he said, letting his eyes wander toward the heavy bruising that had crept from Hogan's right shoulder up toward his neck. "You have yourself a good sleep, Colonel. But make sure you don't forget to come back. I'm waiting for you, sir… Rob… and I'm worried."

Newkirk eased himself back onto the chair, laying an arm along the edge of the bed as he leaned forward to watch Hogan closely. After a few minutes, he sighed softly and lowered his head to rest on his arm. _God, Sir? I'd like to thank You for getting the gov'nor this far. But would it be asking too much to bring him along the rest of the way?_

- - - - - - - - -

Pressure on his upper left arm made Hogan draw in a deep breath through his nose, and he forced his eyes open wide as a feeling of sudden and inexplicable terror raced through him. Instinctively, he tried to pull himself up to a sitting position, but that only brought searing pain, and he could not tolerate it enough to ignore it. He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut as someone nearby made soothing sounds and tried to settle him back on the bed.

"Sh… sh, there, there now," said a soft female voice. "Just lay back and let me look after you, all right?"

Hogan tried vainly to disregard the strong pulsing in his arm, in his chest, in his side, in his head. He felt every sore muscle in his body tense as the woman touched him again, and he found himself unable to speak, unable to ask the questions he so desperately wanted answered: _Where am I? What are you doing to me?_

Opening his eyes again, slowly this time, Hogan tried to find out the answers himself. At first he just let his eyes drift upward, and he saw the white of the ceiling and a shaft of very dim light that came from the hall and drew an angled line above him. He moved his eyes and saw a curtained partition, a trolley holding a glass of water and a bowl, a hard-backed chair, a small closet. Trying to examine himself, he discovered that he was almost completely covered in layer after layer of blankets, and that his right arm, which hurt very badly, seemed propped up higher than the rest of his body under the covers. He had some kind of tubing attached to his left arm, taped down at the wrist.

He let his eyes come to rest on the woman still in the room. A nurse, Hogan surmised, who studiously ignored him while removing a cuff from his arm and taking notes on a chart that she placed on the trolley. _A hospital. I'm in a hospital…. _And he again felt an overwhelming fear as he realized that he hadn't been dreaming at all—he really _had_ been captured by the Germans. He was at the Dulag Luft in Frankfurt… or—_No!_ he thought in anguish—the Hohemark…. And he was being used as a test subject in Nazi experiments. Right now, right here.

"You're doing better," the woman said softly. "You just rest and let us take care of everything. Someone will be back soon."

Hogan closed his eyes to try and think, leaving the nurse to believe he had drifted back to sleep after a sudden nightmare. Confusing thoughts swirled through his aching head, and he could make little sense of them. But he was certain of one thing: he was going to get out before anyone could do any more tests on him. He would just have to wait for his chance.

- - - - - - - - -

Audrey opened the door to Newkirk's room with a silence born of years of experience. Stepping inside, she approached the bed to see the Englishman finally fully asleep. She shook her head, thinking how stubborn he had been not only _not_ to take the pills they offered him, but to sneak out so he could be near his friend, until someone found him, asleep, at Hogan's bedside. The only way they were able to get him to finally agree to leave was if they promised to come and tell him when Hogan woke up—no matter when that was.

Audrey was ready to keep her promise, but looking at Newkirk finally at rest, she decided to wait until the morning. Hogan had gone back to sleep, anyway, and perhaps in the morning, the two friends could actually talk. _That will make him much happier than just staring at him asleep_, she thought, nodding.

She pulled up Newkirk's blanket where he had pushed it away in his sleep, and quietly left the room.

- - - - - - - - -

Hogan lay still and alert for a few minutes after the nurse left his room. Then, resolute, he steadily and agonizingly pulled himself up in the bed, easing the intravenous drip out of his arm, all the while trying to keep an eye out for anyone's return. The pain roared through him like a rip tide, forcing him to stop and bite his lip hard several times before he was even able to stand, but, unwilling to give in, he finally made it to the little closet, drenched in sweat, and leaned weakly, despairing in his fear, against the door for a moment before opening it. As he suspected, his uniform was inside. Dress browns, overcoat, shoes. Finding his right arm almost useless because of intense pain near his shoulder, he one-handedly drew the things he needed out of the closet and brought them back to the bed, all the while terrified that he would be caught by the people who were holding him captive and tied down again, or punished in some other unspeakable way.

Despite the dizziness and constant nausea, Hogan got himself into his clothes. With trembling hands he managed to get his shirt, jacket and coat secured on his sore body, stopping only when the pain in his arm and shoulder became sharp enough to take his breath away. He decided against tying his shoes, as bending over to merely put them on had nearly made him pass out, and dots swimming before his eyes as he started to feel the throbbing of his right hip and leg told him he had done enough for now.

So Hogan practically fell back into bed, determined to put his plan into action, but finding it difficult to concentrate. He had spent the better part of the last twenty minutes getting ready and was now in a lot of pain, so the temptation to succumb to his exhaustion was almost too much to resist. But his fear was stronger than his discomfort, and so he lay, blankets pulled up to his neck, his eyes wide open, taking shuddering breaths through his teeth, and counted by thirteens to keep himself focused until the moment came.

The doctor on night shift came into the room not long after, carrying a small tray that held a syringe, and frowned when he noticed that the intravenous tube was out of the sleeping General's arm. He tutted, then approached the bed and looked carefully at the patient. _Mm, perspiring heavily._ "In a bit of pain, eh?" the doctor said aloud, not expecting an answer. He pulled the trolley over, put the tray on it and prepared the medicine, then turned to pull Hogan's arm out from under the bedclothes so he could administer the shot. "We'll take care of that for you right now. You'll feel better in no time."

But the doctor was surprised when Hogan's eyes flashed open and he sat up quickly in bed, revealing himself as being fully alert. Before the man could say anything, Hogan gripped his arm tightly and then grabbed the prepared syringe from the tray. The doctor gasped as Hogan awkwardly drew himself out of bed and held the needle close to the physician's neck. "_Hände hoch_," Hogan growled.

The doctor just looked at Hogan, confused and frozen in indecision, and so Hogan shoved him onto the bed, keeping the sharp end of the needle up against him. "You understand English," Hogan said, in a voice laced with both anger and pain. "Where do they station the guards?"

The doctor found his voice, small and shaking as it was. "Guards?" he croaked. "We don't have any—"

Hogan gripped the doctor harder. "Okay, Fritz, you're gonna make it hard? Well, I'll tell you what—why don't _you _take some of this 'painkiller' you were gonna give me? Let's see how _you_ like being a guinea pig." And without hesitation, Hogan quickly drew up the doctor's sleeve and almost expertly plunged the needle into the alarmed man's arm.

"Oh, no—no, you mustn't!" was all the doctor said, unable to make himself move against this obviously delirious man.

Hogan just shook his head and then pushed the doctor down onto his back on the bed. "Don't worry, Fritz," he said. "If you're not lying about what's in that needle, you'll have nothing to worry about." Hogan dropped the used syringe on the tray. "See ya later, Fritz. In my nightmares."

And taking a quick look out the door, Hogan slipped out of his room and down the empty hallway, as the doctor succumbed to the Pentothal, and fell asleep.


	7. Making Connections

No ownership of the _Hogan's Heroes_ characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, original characters and storyline belong to Wordybirds. Thanks.

One loyal friend is better than ten thousand family members.

—Unknown

---- ---- ----

**Chapter Seven**

**Making Connections**

Doctor Shields slowly opened his eyes, wondering for a moment just exactly where he was. He sat up, and the memory of being overpowered by one of the patients came flooding back. Swearing, the doctor climbed out of the bed he'd been dumped in, and made his way unsteadily across the room. Bracing himself against the door, he looked into the hall, calling for the nurse.

Audrey saw the physician leaning precariously against the doorframe and came running toward him. "Oh, Doctor Shields, we were looking everywhere for you! Where have you _been_ for the last hour?"

Shields shook his head. "Where's the man who was in this room?"

"What do you mean 'was', Doctor?" Audrey looked past the doctor to the empty bed behind him. "He was there when I did my last check about an hour and a half ago."

"Well, he isn't there now!" Shields rubbed his eyes. "I went in there to examine him myself and give him some pain relief, and he overpowered me and gave _me_ the shot instead! He was fully dressed, ready to go. I think he's out of his mind—and he's probably quite dangerous." Again he rubbed his face. "What time is it?"

"About four-fifteen," the nurse said, becoming more and more horrified at the implications of what he was saying.

"I went in there just after three o'clock. That means he could be anywhere by now. Have someone check the grounds, and every corner of this hospital! We must find him and restrain him before he hurts someone."

"Yes, Doctor," said Audrey, and she turned to run away.

Newkirk came to the door of his room, having been awakened by all the noise. He looked at the two standing in the hall and frowned. "Right then, what's all the fuss about?" He yawned and raked his dark hair back out of his eyes.

Shields immediately turned to the patient and shook his head. "Never mind, sir. Everything's under control. You go back to sleep."

"Can't bloody well be under control, mate, not with all the shoutin' going on out here." Newkirk shook his head as he eyed the clearly aggravated doctor.

"It's nothing for you to be concerned about, sir. Now please go back to bed." Shields gestured for Newkirk to go back into the room as he turned toward the nurse. "We need to call the police. You go do that, and I'll start on the report."

Audrey bit her lip as she looked at Newkirk, then back to the doctor. "Um, Doctor? This man needs to know what's happened; they were brought in together earlier."

Newkirk came fully awake on hearing that, and rushed into the hall. "Let's try it again, shall we?" He was face to face with the doctor, eyes narrowed with growing anger. "What's this about the Colonel and calling the police?"

The doctor looked at Newkirk, startled. "'The Colonel'?" he echoed. "Young man, I don't know what you're going on about, but—"

"_But_ nothing!" Newkirk grabbed the doctor by the arm and turned him to face Hogan's room, shocked when he discovered it was empty. "The man who _was_ in that bed is one of the best friends I have in the world. Now start talking!"

Shields shook himself free and straightened his white coat. "Your _best friend_ attacked me and left the room, and possibly the hospital," he said, affronted. "He's quite dangerous, I would say. We must call the police in case he's out there causing trouble."

Newkirk seized the lapels of the doctor's lab coat and shoved him against the nearest wall. "Now you get something straight." The Englishman's voice was a low growl in the doctor's ear as he spoke. "First off, Colonel Hogan would never attack anyone without a damned good reason. Second, he's just been in a car smash and took a good knock on the head among other things, in case you couldn't be bothered to read the bloody charts! Third... you call the police on him and you're gonna need a doctor yourself. _You read me, mate?_"

Shields pushed Newkirk's hands away with some difficulty. "I didn't get a chance to get that far, _mate_," he answered bitterly. "Whatever your Colonel Hogan's problem is, he didn't seem to have any inhibitions about attacking innocent people. _Fritz_, indeed," he sniffed, straightening his clothes. "Audrey, get on the phone to the police."

"Yes, Doctor," the nurse said, nodding. She looked apologetically at Newkirk. "If he is off of hospital grounds, it would be better to have some help in finding him. He truly isn't well, and it would be dangerous to his health for him to be out on his own right now."

"Hang on, love." Newkirk glanced at Audrey, then turned back to the doctor. "What's this about Fritz? Where'd you hear that?"

"It's what your friend called me right before he gave _me_ the shot of painkillers I'd brought for _him_." Shields rubbed his arm as he spoke. "He was out of his head, raving on about guards and I don't know what else!"

_Fritz... and guards? Gov'nor, what are you on about with all that?_ Newkirk frowned, then gave the doctor an apologetic look. "All right, I'm sorry about being so rough on you, but it's real important that you tell me exactly what he said and what he did."

Shields shook himself as though having to physically take on the apology. Then he said, obviously irritated, "I went into the room a short time after Audrey did. She told me the patient had woken up and seemed very agitated, probably couldn't remember how he got here. I intended to examine him and give him a shot, as Audrey said he was clearly in pain. When I got into the room, the patient was completely under the blankets. His intravenous tube was hanging loose and he seemed uncomfortable. I moved in to administer the shot, and the next thing I knew, he was on top of me—grabbed the syringe and said something I didn't quite understand while he held it to my neck!"

Newkirk nodded, deep in thought. "What did it sound like?"

Shields frowned, visibly not understanding the necessity of this conversation. "It sounded like _hahnt… hoash-hair._" Shields waved his hand dismissively. "He was fully dressed—had on an overcoat, couldn't tell what was underneath it. Then he asked me about where the guards were stationed or some such nonsense—obviously he thought he was in a military hospital. Then he kept calling me Fritz, and he accused me of lying about what was in the syringe I was going to inject him with. But he didn't have any reservations about using it on _me_ if I was!"

"Hahnt hoash-hair? Hahnt..." Newkirk paused, then snapped his fingers. "_Hände hoch_?" His voice shifted, losing the English accent completely as he spoke the words in German. "Was that it?"

Shields nodded hesitantly. "Yes," he said, frowning. "Yes, that sounds about right. Now what the _devil _are you talking about? You're just wasting time here. The police must be notified immediately!"

"Not just yet. Did he say anything else? It could ruddy well be important." Newkirk rubbed his chin thoughtfully. _Calling this bloke Fritz, asking about guards. Speaking German in an American hospital. I don't like where this is heading, gov'nor. I don't like it one bit._ The Englishman turned and went back toward his room. "You come along and keep talking while I get dressed."

Shields protested but followed Newkirk anyway. "Now see here, young man—no, he didn't say anything else—no, wait… yes, he did. When he gave me the shot, he said that it would be my chance to know what it felt like to be a guinea pig." He stopped mid-step, and shook his head. "I didn't understand that. But then, I went under before I could make much more sense of anything."

Newkirk stopped and turned to the doctor. "Can... can someone have nightmares about something that he... doesn't remember happening?" His voice was low and soft as he tried to keep a rein on the thoughts rapidly coming together in his mind.

Shields frowned again. "I… suppose that's possible. The mind can lock many things away that only come back to us in our dreams." He let out a frustrated breath. "Look, what's this all about?"

"If I'm right about what I'm thinking, some very ugly things happened to the Colonel when he was taken prisoner by the Germans during the war." Newkirk grabbed his uniform out of the closet and began to dress, ignoring both the stabs of pain from his newly-aggravated injuries and Audrey's presence in the room. "Things they're hanging those Nazi bastards for over in Nuremberg."

"What do you mean, _if you're right_? Don't you know?"

"No, I don't know for certain. I wasn't there, and he's never talked about it. I'm not even sure if he remembers much of it or not." Newkirk struggled to get his undershirt pulled into place over the layers of bandages wrapped around his shoulder and torso as he spoke. "What I do know is that for the last couple of weeks, he's been having what he calls 'nightmares' that have him up walking the floor all night. The one episode that I saw... he was off somewhere, lost in his mind, living through something so horrible that he lost track of where he was for a time—and _when_ he was." The Englishman nodded gratefully to Audrey, who had come over to help him dress.

"So… you're suggesting that he might be going through that again?" Shields asked slowly.

"That's about the only thing that makes sense, isn't it? I know he'd been wounded pretty badly when he was shot down, and the Krauts took him to this special hospital they used for patching up the Allied flyers they thought might be of some use to them. He shows up months later at a POW camp looking like he's been through a wringer, and during one of our first little chats, he lets something slip about some kind of 'experiments'."

Newkirk paused, pulling on his uniform shirt to give himself time to calm down and think. _I hate spilling all the gov'nor's secrets like this, but I've got to know what's going on inside his head if I'm gonna have any chance at all of finding him. _"So he wakes up here, only his mind is back there. I figure he grabbed the first chance to escape that he could, and now he's out there somewhere, confused and hurting." Tucking his shirt in, Newkirk pulled on his uniform jacket and sat down on the bed to put on his shoes, doing his best to ignore the pain radiating from his ribs. Audrey quietly stopped him with a touch of her hand and tied the laces for him. Newkirk sat up straight and smiled at her appreciatively.

"So you honestly don't think he's a danger to anyone else in his current condition?" Shields asked, dubious. "You heard what he did to me; don't you think he would be capable of doing something just as violent—or worse—to someone else?"

Newkirk shook his head slowly. "No, sir. The only way he'd hurt someone is if he saw them as a threat or they attacked him first. Besides, if he had wanted you dead... you would be." As Audrey finished tying off the last lace, the Englishman stood and picked up his overcoat. "There is something you can do to help, if you would."

Shields gulped at Newkirk's statement of Hogan's capabilities, then said, "What's that?"

"You remember General Walters, love?" Newkirk glanced at Audrey, and at her nod, continued. "Call him, tell him everything that's happened, and tell him I'm going after my Colonel." With that, Newkirk pulled his still-damp overcoat on over his equally damp uniform, and headed for the door.


	8. Running from the Past

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, original characters, and storyline belongs to Wordybirds. Thanks.

* * *

Invisible threads are the strongest ties.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**Running from the Past**

Hogan paused for the fourth time in ten minutes and bent nearly double, trying to control the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that was threatening to leave him heaving into a snow bank. Dizzy and bathed in sweat, he leaned against the cold wall of the building, watching with dazed concentration at the white streams coming out of his mouth as he tried to clear his head by taking long, deep breaths.

Frankfurt was in the middle of a long, harsh winter, Hogan thought vaguely, looking at the unfamiliar places around him. He tried to draw farther into himself, but doing anything that put pressure on his right side caused too much pain. He squinted in the moonlight, looking across a countryside that meant nothing to him, trying to ignore a blistering headache, and trying to will himself to keep moving in the cold. There had to be a place to get shelter, he thought, but he didn't know anything about Germany, and anyway if he stopped, someone from the hospital might catch up to him and drag him back for testing.

Spurred on by this overwhelming fear, Hogan staggered away from the alley, limping heavily as his badly bruised side sent knife-like stabs of protest through his body. He couldn't clear his head, but continued moving anyway, despite what was becoming blurred vision. His swollen right shoulder banged clumsily against the edge of the building. "Just… for a minute…" Hogan gasped aloud, stopping as his eyes filled with tears of pain. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on something, anything, as he willed the agony away. He tried his old trick—working on a mind puzzle, something that made him concentrate, and hopefully helped him forget his dire circumstances.

"Genesis," Hogan said in a whisper. "Exodus. Leviticus… Numbers… Deuteronomy… Judges—no, _Joshua_, Judges…Ruth… and Samuel. Both Samuels…" Hogan thought far back to his Sunday religion lessons to recite all the books of the Bible, in order. He started getting confused and opened his eyes. Favoring his right arm and his sore hip and leg, he once again moved out, his lips moving as he struggled to keep some sense of reality in his world. He moved slowly through the deserted streets, startled by any unexpected movement, which turned out to be a stray dog, or a tree branch blowing in the cold, bitter wind, or his imagination.

Hogan looked down at the clear trail of footprints he was leaving behind him. "Gotta get out of… the snow," he said to himself out loud. He wished he could have spared the time to find his crush cap, he thought. As it was now, he was freezing, with no hat and no gloves. Something inside him argued. _You were shot down in July…. _

He ignored the inconsistency and continued to walk, looking for a place to get out of the weather. Finally, Hogan stumbled up the stairs of a large church and stood under the archway, hoping to get warm in a corner facing away from the wind. He shivered for awhile, trying to make himself small and inconspicuous. But when he knew that was failing, he tried the door. Surprisingly, it gave to his tug and he hobbled inside, stopping in the entrance hall to catch his breath and take in some of the warmth of the building.

Candles burning in all corners were the only light in the church. Hogan took a few staggering steps forward, keeping his eyes on the large, ornate crucifix hanging in the sanctuary at the front, above a large marble altar. "_In nomen of abbas, quod filius, quod sanctus spiritus, amen_," he muttered automatically, and when he tried to make the sign of the cross he groaned and cradled his hurting arm close to his body, and suddenly remembered why he was here in the first place. To hide, and to escape.

Hogan went as far into the church as he could manage, even that short walk now seeming miles long. He found a high-backed pew and dropped into it, lying immediately on his left side and letting his eyes close. "Just… for a minute," he said again, letting his body relax despite the fear charging through his brain, and the hurt and nausea sinking into him. The incident with the man in the hospital made a brief appearance in his mind, frightening him again and urging him on. _Then I've got to keep running. I can't let them catch me again…. _"God, how far is it to England?" he whispered aloud.

Then, still terrified but hurting and beyond exhausted, Hogan curled himself up into the smallest ball he could manage and unwillingly fell asleep.

____________

The moment he stepped out the hospital door, Newkirk turned up his collar and jammed his hands into his pockets as the cold night air swirled around him. "All right, gov'nor, which way did you go? I watched you sneak around in the woods for three years, so let's see..." The Englishman looked around, noting the parking lot in front of the hospital and the road leading away, and shook his head. "Too open. How about... right." He nodded to himself and started toward the woods lining the road, watching for a place where the snow would be disturbed, indicating that someone had walked through it instead of remaining on the pavement.

Newkirk stopped when he saw the churned-up snow marking a trail that headed into the woods. He stepped off the road and began to follow the same path. As he walked, he noted a couple of places where the person making the tracks had slipped, and nodded grimly to himself when he also slipped and nearly fell at the same spots. "I'll have to watch what I'm doing. Ruddy dress shoes never were meant for this sort of expedition, were they? What I wouldn't give right now for my old boots and a set of the black clothes we used to wear on nights like this."

The trail continued through the woods, being fairly easy to find because of the snow. If it wasn't a clear footprint on the ground that marked the way, it was a broken-off branch or a place where the snow had been knocked off the brush. Finding the trail might have been easy, but following it proved to be another story as the Englishman's injuries made themselves known all over again. Newkirk stopped and leaned against a tree, arms tightly wrapped across his chest as he tried to catch his breath.

After riding out a coughing spell, Newkirk pushed his sleeve back to check his watch. _Let's see. The Colonel was gone about an hour and a half before anyone knew about it. Then it took me ten, maybe fifteen minutes to get the whole story out of that idiot Shields, and I've been out here around half an hour tops. Gov'nor, you must really be running scared to be keeping ahead of me in your condition. Slow down, mate...._ _Slow down. We have to find you._

Newkirk sighed, and got himself back on the trail.

__________

"What do you mean he's already gone?" Walters shook his head as Audrey once again explained how Newkirk had taken off once he learned about Hogan's disappearance. "And where does he expect to get on his own?" He sighed, frustrated but already formulating a plan. He turned to the men filing into the hospital's main entrance behind him. "Okay, we're going to have to use the dogs for both of them. Lowry, you organize the men outside. Glover, you go with this young lady and make sure she gives you something that the dogs can use for both men—a pillowcase, a sheet, anything. We'll have to get started right away. Neither of them should be out, and in this weather if their injuries don't get them, the cold will. Let's move."

The men accepted their orders and moved to obey. Walters turned back to the nurse. "I'm sorry they gave you so much trouble—they were never easy to handle during the war either. But they were damned fine men, both of them."

Audrey smiled wanly. "That's all right, General. At least I know that I am doing at least as well as the whole United States government!" She nodded at Glover, and asked for him to follow.

____________

_The pain was excruciating as the blood rushed back into his long-frozen extremities all at once. Hogan cried out, thrashing in his state of half-awareness, unable to stop the people who were holding him in the hot water, who were trying to wake him up and warm him up so he could go on to the next trial. He struggled as they pulled him out of the tub, but gave in when it was clear there was to be no respite. He was practically dragged down to another room where he was given explicit instructions in halting English about what was expected of him, and then suddenly he felt like he was lighter than air, and the world was spinning, and the air was being squeezed out of his lungs. He looked around frantically for an oxygen mask, but there was none, and suddenly the world was moving further and further away…._

Hogan woke up with a cry, startled by his vivid dream. He tried to sit up quickly, a task which proved impossible as his muscles had stiffened in his sleep, and he hissed as pain once again thundered through him. All of a sudden Hogan remembered where he was—he had taken refuge in a church, and he was on the run from the Germans. He couldn't let himself be caught again, couldn't let them do those horrible things to him again—he had to run. And so he pulled himself up in the pew, gritting his teeth against the pain, and stood up.

A sudden dizziness nearly drove him back down. He put a hand up to his head and felt the bandages there. His head still pounded ruthlessly, lending magnification to every sound and movement. But he just waited out the worst of the hurt and then turned to leave.

Once outside, Hogan looked around him. Dawn was just beginning to appear in the sky; he must have slept for some time, as it had been very dark when he went inside. He cursed his weakness, thinking how much time he had lost, and how much time the enemy had gained in its hunt for him. He looked again at the sky. _If the sun is rising there…_ He turned and looked the opposite way, _then the Allies are in that direction. How far away though?_ he wondered, then discounted the argument. _No matter how far they are, they're your only way out. Start walking, and keep out of sight._

And so Hogan began the slow, arduous trek westward.

__________

Newkirk paused as the woods finally gave way to the outskirts of a small community. Hogan's trail led out onto a road and into the shadows of an alley. _That makes sense, Colonel. Got yourself out of the open as quick as you could, then I bet I'll find where you've snuck along the edge of that alley until you figured out where to go next._ The Englishman ducked into the alley himself, glad to be out of the woods for awhile. Once out of there, Hogan's footprints led across another street, and up the steps of a church.

Hand resting on the doorknob, Newkirk looked at the tracks leading away from the church, then back at the door. _Looks like he's gone. But maybe there's someone in here that'll know something about him, and I can get an idea of how long it's been since he left._ Newkirk opened the door and stepped inside, sighing in relief as the warmth of the candle-lit sanctuary wrapped itself around him.

Relief changed quickly to disappointment when he realized the church was empty. Newkirk grabbed the back of a pew for support as his strength seemed to suddenly drain away, and he dropped onto the smooth, wooden bench. A coughing fit shook his body once again, leaving him very sore and tired after it passed. He leaned back to catch his breath, and his eyes fell on the large crucifix hanging at the far end of the room.

_God, Sir? I want to thank You for getting the gov'nor safely away from that car smash. But why all the rest of it? Why did he have to up and take off—?_ Newkirk sighed and shook his head. _Sorry, Sir, I didn't mean to have a go at You like that. What I meant was... the Colonel needs Your help again._ _He's not in good shape right now, and it's bloody—sorry about that, bad habit I reckon— but it's too cold for him outside. I'm just afraid that he'll... that he's not gonna make it this time. Please, help me find him before it's too late._

Newkirk sat in the warm silence a few moments longer, then pulled himself to his feet. "I'd best get going again. Thanks for the rest." He nodded respectfully to the Cross, then headed back outside.

__________

Down on his knees in the snow, Hogan leaned heavily toward his right, trying to ease the soreness that had quickly elevated from a dull throb to a sharp stab with every tired step. Over the last couple of miles, every breath he exhaled had been followed by a hissing inhalation through gritted teeth. Now, eyes squeezed shut and hugging himself tightly with his left arm, he longed to just lie down in the snow and go to sleep. But whenever he considered the consequences of doing so—being caught by the Germans—he forced himself to get back up, and move on.

Hogan knew he should be cold—freezing—after so long outside, but he was feeling terribly hot, still nauseous, and sometimes quite dizzy. And on this, his third fall since he had left the shelter of the church, he was more tempted than ever to succumb to his body's pleas for mercy. Almost as a compromise, Hogan scooped up some snow with a numb hand and ran it over his face, breathing easier for just a moment as it eased some of his discomfort. Then, greedily, he put some fresh snow in his mouth to quench his unyielding thirst.

"God… just… so tired," Hogan said through labored breaths. He looked up, and through his blurred vision he could barely discern the outline of a barn on a large block of land in the distance. _There…I need to get… there…._

One more breath, as deep as he could manage, and Hogan pushed himself up with his left leg and stood. Then he staggered awkwardly on.

Another mile and Hogan was about to drop. He could no longer ignore the now nearly unbearable pain radiating from his side and making each step an exquisite torture. Nor could he disregard the thumping in his head that was making every breath ring through him as loudly as a church bell. There was the barn just ahead of him. Letting out a soft cry as he pulled away from the support of the tree he had been leaning on, he launched forward, then pulled the barn door open and stumbled inside the building, praying to God that no one had seen him come in, and that if someone _had_ seen him, that he would be allowed to simply die here in peace.

As he sank to the ground near a bundle of hay at the opening to a stall, he whispered, "Just… for a… minute. God, please stay with me here." And he promptly fell into another uneasy period of blackness.

__________

The cold hit Newkirk like a hammer when he left the church, quickly numbing his hands and feet as he concentrated on following Hogan's path that led back out of the small town. It wasn't the cold that made him shiver, though, when he found the first place where Hogan had fallen. Newkirk found himself going faster after that, pushing himself to catch up despite the constant stabbing pains in his chest from the effort of breathing while on the run.

Daylight had long since come, and Newkirk had pretty much lost track of how long he'd been on the trail when he found himself approaching a large barn. Hogan's footprints led to the door, and Newkirk leaned against it for a moment, struggling to catch his breath before pulling it open.

Newkirk stepped inside, and as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he caught sight of Hogan lying on the floor. _Thank You, God.... Please let him be alive_. Crossing the barn, he knelt awkwardly and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Colonel? Colonel Hogan?"

Without warning, Newkirk found himself flat on his back as Hogan suddenly jumped up and grabbed him by the arm, slamming him to the ground and pressing down as hard as he could with his limited strength. Newkirk gasped at the impact, feeling his sore ribs protesting loudly, but he didn't strike back, and when he looked up into Hogan's eyes, he saw only raw fear and desperation. "Gov'nor, it's _me_!"

Hogan abruptly let go and stood up, towering over the Englishman and breathing hard. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and winced as his own injuries tore at him. And then he just stared warily at the stranger at his feet.

Newkirk rolled away from Hogan, wrapping his arms around his chest as he struggled to get the past the pain. His mind suddenly raced back to the time he had awakened Hogan unexpectedly at Stalag 13 and found his throat pressed up against the business end of Hogan's knife. "Bloody hell, Colonel, you _still_ wake up mean, don't you?"

Hogan watched cautiously as the man dragged himself up into a sitting position and then stood up. Then Hogan took one step back, grimacing and swaying slightly, and pressed his left hand carefully against his throbbing right flank. But he said nothing.

Newkirk leaned against one of the roof support posts, arms still tight around his chest as he looked at his friend. The expression of suspicion and distrust on Hogan's face cut right into the Englishman's heart. _The gov'nor doesn't know me at all…. This is far worse than it was the other night. Blimey, was it really only two nights ago?_ He closed his eyes for a moment, took a careful breath and straightened up, coming as close to 'at attention' as he could under the circumstances. "Peter Newkirk, RAF, sir. And you'd be...?"

Hogan's inability to recognize the Englishman didn't change. Still staring, his eyes wide and fearful, Hogan opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. He shook his head, confused.

"Come on, mate. You've gotta have a name." Newkirk slumped against the post again as he forced a grin onto his face. "I'm not gonna call you 'sir' _all_ the time, especially as we ain't even in the same Army. Sir." _Come on, Colonel. You've heard me say that a thousand times! _He paused, disheartened, when their familiar joke seemed to have no impact on Hogan. _I've got to find some way to get through to him. The last time, it was by just talking to him. If that's what it takes, I'll rattle on so much he'll get sick of hearing me and tell me to hush up the way he always did with Carter._

Hogan blinked into some form of awareness, and said in a hoarse voice, "Hogan, Robert E. Colonel, US Army Air Corps. Serial number 0876707."


	9. Lost

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes character is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, original storyline and characters belongs to Wordybirds. Thanks.

* * *

"A champion is one who gets up when he can't."

—Jack Dempsey

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**Lost…**

Newkirk stared at Hogan, stunned by what he'd just heard. That was the standard litany for all servicemen captured by the enemy: name, rank and serial number. _How many times did I have to recite the bloody thing myself? Does he think I'm a ruddy Kraut or is it something more? More, much more, I think, since he doesn't act like he knows me at all... Act? That's it! I'll act…._ "Pleased to meet you, gov'nor. Can't say I've met too many Yank Colonels before. How'd you wind up here, if you don't mind my asking?" Newkirk put a smile on his face and waited, hoping Hogan would pick up on the question and respond. _Come on, Rob. Give me something to work with._

Hogan seemed to lower his defenses just for a second, as his eyes looked the Englishman over again. But the worry never disappeared. "I escaped," he said in an almost timid voice.

Newkirk nodded. "I got tired of Kraut hospitality myself. My dear old Nan always said a good guest never outstays his welcome, so I took off a few days ago."

Hogan frowned and for just the briefest moment broke eye contact, appearing almost lost in the vast emptiness of the barn. He drew in a breath, arcing his body as a strong wave of pain rolled through him, then he looked back at the newcomer, but said nothing else to him.

"You all right there, Colonel?" Newkirk pushed himself away from the post and moved toward Hogan. "Why don't you take a seat for a while, sir? Looks like you could use the rest, and I know I could."

Hogan's frown intensified, and as this stranger approached him he took a couple more steps backwards. When his leg connected with the hay bale he had been sleeping near, he sat down almost unexpectedly, his eyes darting from the Englishman to the door and back again. He was feeling hot and dizzy, and was finding breathing calmly difficult, but he couldn't take a chance that this man would lead him into any danger, no matter how friendly he seemed.

Newkirk stopped and lowered his hand. "Easy there, gov'nor, I'm not gonna hurt you. We're on the same side, you know, and we'll get out of this." The Englishman took a seat on a nearby box and grinned. "Everything will come out right, now that you've got me on your team."

_This is turning into one of the hardest acting jobs of my life; at least when I was dressed up and acting the part of some bloody Gestapo officer or another, it was __**my**__ life I was laying on the line. Now, it's the Colonel's life, or at least his sanity. Not much difference in the end._ Newkirk sighed and shook his head. "Speaking of being on your team, Colonel, you got any ideas on how we're gonna get back to England?" He paused, giving Hogan a thoughtful look.

Another long silence while Hogan seemed to consider, then he gestured vaguely behind him. "I'm heading west," he said simply. He stopped, then said, "I don't know how far it is. And I don't know if…" He shook his head and closed his eyes wearily. "I don't think… I'll make it all the way before they catch me again."

"Here now, none of that, mate." Newkirk leaned forward, trying to catch Hogan's eyes with his own. "We'll make it out together." He paused, then nodded to himself as if he'd come to a decision. "I don't know if you've heard the rumors going around the camps, but there's supposed to be some kind of Underground organization that helps escaping prisoners get back to the Allied lines. They say that if you can break out, then head toward this one town, there's a good chance you'll get help."

Hogan's eyes suddenly took on a haunted look. "I haven't gotten to the camps," he said, sounding almost regretful. "They won't let me go."

"Stick with me then, gov'nor. My escape officer told me how to contact this group, you know, their code names and such." _Sounds like he doesn't remember anything beyond the transition camp at Wetzlar. Or he may not even be that far along, I can't say for certain, and I sure as hell don't want to push him back to the Hohemark._

_Dear God... no... please, anything but that. _Newkirk's face went pale as a horrible thought struck him._ The Hohemark—everything I ever heard about it said it was an annex of Hell disguised as a hospital, and the gov'nor's just been in hospital. That has to be what's brought this whole damned bloody mess on... and I'm the one that put him there with that car smash!_ Newkirk covered his face with his hands as he fought back the sudden tears burning behind his eyes. _All of this... it's my fault_.

Hogan leaned in as though to reach out and help the suddenly pale man who up to now had been so casual and almost familiar. His eyes carried genuine concern, and when Newkirk finally looked up, he realized that Hogan's mindset would be revealed mainly by his deep brown eyes, if not by his words. But the guardedness was dropped only for an instant, and Hogan's trembling hand stopped before it reached Newkirk's arm.

Newkirk sighed and sat up. _Can't tell him what's happening to him… not yet. He won't understand. _ "Sorry about that, mate. I've got a couple of cracked ribs that feel the need to remind me every once in a while that they're still cracked," he said instead. "Anyway, as I was saying, I know the code name for the leader of this Underground bunch." He paused, and looked directly into Hogan's eyes before continuing. "They call him... _Papa Bear_." _Please, Rob. Please let that mean something to you, even with the way you are now._

It did. Hogan's harsh breathing stopped all at once, so suddenly that Newkirk had to look carefully at the American to make sure he was breathing at all. Hogan's eyes were giving away a whole change in mindset. The words had unleashed a flood of images and emotions in Hogan's mind, but they were all jumbled and he could make no sense of them. All Hogan knew, now, was that the man before him was not a threat, and might very well be the one who could guide him out of this nightmare. He was shaking violently as he looked back at the Englishman, wide-eyed.

"_Newkirk…_" Hogan breathed.

The gasped word was a whisper of recognition, and a plea for help. Though incredible fear was still evident, the earnestness was unmistakable. _He knows me_, Newkirk thought with a wave of relief that nearly made him faint. _Look at his eyes—he knows me_. _Come on, gov'nor, we're half way home now._ The Englishman smiled gently and nodded. "That's right, gov'nor. I'm your old mate Newkirk. Talk to me... tell me what's going on with you."

Hogan began an almost non-stop scan of the barn around him, shivering and agitated, cold and scared and hurting. "They're looking for me, Newkirk," Hogan said in a soft, anxious voice. "They did things to me, and they were going to do them again." He looked at the Englishman, distressed. "I couldn't let that happen."

"Who, Colonel? Who was it and what did they do?" Newkirk spoke quietly, and watched Hogan closely. It cut him to the core to see his friend in this condition, and he longed to reach out to the man, but Newkirk was afraid that any sudden move on his part would cause Hogan to panic.

Hogan stared hard at a spot on the floor, leaning in harder toward his injured side and seeming to close in on himself as much as possible. "People… At the hospital… They used me." He paused and closed his eyes as he seemed to recall the past. Then he opened his eyes and continued as though in a trance. "Drugged me. They chained me to things, and if I couldn't do what they wanted me to…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head as one tear made its way down his face. "And it was cold," he said in a whisper. "It was so cold." He looked up at Newkirk with a clarity in his eyes that the Englishman hadn't seen since this whole mess began. "You can't let them get you, Newkirk. Get away while you can."

_At last. That's the man I came to know and respect back at Stalag 13. Colonel Hogan always put his men first, no matter what the cost to himself._ Newkirk pushed himself to his feet and moved slowly across the barn to sit next to the American. He turned, catching Hogan's eyes with his own. "I'm not goin' anywhere, gov'nor. And don't you worry none, because nothing bad is gonna happen to you as long as you've got me on your side. I promise you that."

Hogan shook his head. "You don't know how they operate. You can't stay with me. You can get farther on your own. You have to go." Hogan stood up unsteadily and moved away.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I _do_ know how they operate. There wasn't one of us that wasn't hauled out of Stalag 13 by the Gestapo or the Abwehr from time to time, and it ruddy well wasn't for afternoon tea. Also, there wasn't one of us that didn't see how much more they did when it was your turn." Newkirk paused, shaking his head slowly. "And there wasn't one of us that wouldn't have traded places with you, gov'nor, if we could have spared you some of it."

"I've only had the two rounds with them at the Dulag, and you wouldn't have traded places with me if you were there," Hogan said with a trace of bitterness. He took in a sudden breath and bent nearly double as fresh beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. "Get out," he gasped. "And that's an order."

_Dulag Luft? Bloody hell, he doesn't even remember being at Stalag 13 yet! But if that's the case, why does he know me, and why did the name Papa Bear have such an impact? He's in such a muddle... how can I help?_ Newkirk stood and shook his head. "No, sir. I'm not about to leave you here alone. You never abandoned any of us the entire time we were at Stalag 13. Notice I said 'we', Colonel; that's because you were there with me for three years, during which time you were in charge of an Allied intelligence and sabotage unit that operated out of a prisoner of war camp in Nazi Germany."

Newkirk went to Hogan's side, putting his hand on his friend's shoulder, trying to offer some gesture of comfort even as he drove his point home. _It's tearing me up inside to do this to you, but I just can't leave you lost in your own mind like this._ "One other thing: you, gov'nor... _you_ were the Underground operative known as Papa Bear."

Still breathing hard, Hogan turned his head toward the Englishman. Had he heard right? The man must be mad; sabotage and intelligence, operating out of a prisoner of war camp—Hogan hadn't made it out of the Hohemark with any grace, never mind organizing an anti-German unit right under their noses. And yet… why did it all seem so familiar? He couldn't even figure out why Newkirk seemed like a safe haven, but he somehow suspected that the man could be a friend, though from where, Hogan had no idea. He closed his eyes and turned away. His head was pounding and his arm and side were hurting badly, and he was tired, so tired. He didn't want to listen to Newkirk's fairy tales any more. "Go," he whispered, moving a hand up to his head. "Please go."

"No, Rob." Newkirk spoke softly, saddened. "I'm not going to leave you to face this alone."

Without thinking, Hogan suddenly latched onto Newkirk as a wave of dizziness threatened to send him sprawling. Newkirk helped ease him back down to the hay bale he had been using as a seat, and Hogan hung his head low, trying to beat down the nausea that had washed in with the dizziness. "You've got your orders, Corporal; I expect them to be obeyed." The tone of his own voice surprised Hogan, and when his head stopped swimming, he looked up at Newkirk with startled eyes. _Stalag 13_. The recognition hit him like a slap in the face. He was suddenly awash with overwhelming images that filled his senses. But were they real, like this danger they were in now, or were they dreams?

"_Newkirk_…_?_" Hogan said again, unable to make sense of anything he was seeing or thinking.

Newkirk lowered himself to sit beside his friend, putting his arm around Hogan and letting the man lean against him as he searched his mind for what to do next. _So close, so bloody close, and now he's gone again! He knew me there for a moment, even called me "Corporal" and sounded like he did when he was serious about an order. _He looked at his old commanding officer, who once again seemed so lost and confused in the world, who was exhausted enough to give up fighting, at least for a moment, and let himself take comfort in an old, if unfamiliar, friendship. _Now... Now what do I do? I can't—no, I won't leave him alone here, but I don't think he's up to another hike through the woods. _Newkirk rubbed his eyes, and bowed his head, hating how close his emotions were to the surface right now.

Newkirk slowly raised his head as a new sound intruded on the silence of the barn. He listened closely, frowning when he realized it was the yelping sound of dogs on the hunt. Newkirk shivered as his own memories of being trailed through the German countryside by many a group of Krauts came to the fore.

The noise obviously had the same impact on Hogan. Newkirk felt the American's body tense as Hogan sat up straight and listened. The comfort was gone; the fear had returned in force. "They're here," he said in a shaky voice. He stood up with difficulty. "Go," he said to Newkirk. "Please. _Please_ go." He looked around as though searching for a place to hide for himself, and suddenly pointed to a small opening near a stall on the other side of the barn. "Go through there; they won't get you that way. They'll see me and stop; they'll think you left long ago. Go—_just go!_"

Newkirk tried to protest, desperate to make Hogan understand that he no longer had to fear for his safety. "Gov'nor, they're not coming to—"

"_Go!_" Hogan almost shouted, as he fell down on one knee. He couldn't hold out any longer. If Newkirk left, at least he would feel like he had accomplished something before he was returned to that Hell on earth he had escaped from.

Newkirk got to his feet and looked at Hogan, realizing now that there was nothing more he could do for his friend, at least not here, and certainly not without help. He crossed to the barn door and took a quick look outside, confirming his suspicion that the dogs were indeed being handled by American soldiers and that they were rapidly heading his way. "It'll all come right in the end, Rob. I promise you that." After a final look back at Hogan, Newkirk pulled the door open and slipped outside.

Newkirk saw the handlers dressed in heavy dark clothing pull sharply on the leashes of their excited Belgian shepherds, bringing the dogs to a stop when he stepped out of the barn. The dogs kept up their yelping as Newkirk finally stumbled to a halt, gasping for breath in the cold morning air. "Back off with those bloody hounds before something else goes wrong! How fast can you get an ambulance out here?"

One of the handlers reached over to take Newkirk's arm, wanting to give the clearly exhausted man some support, but the Englishman shook the hand off angrily. "I'm fine, mate! You just get on your radio and get some help heading this way!"

"No!" came a feeble cry from the barn. The men looked up, startled, only to see Hogan, white and panting, leaning heavily on the door, clearly now too weak to continue his approach. "No," he repeated, too calmly. Hogan saw the dogs, saw the soldiers, saw the man's hand on Newkirk's arm and the look of anger on the Englishman's face. "It's me you want. Leave him be."

Newkirk spun around, catching the look of despair on Hogan's face that showed all too clearly how he was seeing the scene. "It's all right, gov'nor. They're Yank soldiers just like you are." The Englishman turned quickly back to the handlers. "Look, fellows, the Col—no, the _General_ has had a pretty nasty knock on the head, so he's not thinking too clearly just now. Let's all take this nice and easy, shall we?"

One handler, oblivious to the sensitivity of the situation but concerned about the man at the barn, approached Hogan, the dog he held straining at his lead as it honed in on the scent it had been tracking for so many hours. "Sir?" the man began, moving in.

Hogan's head snapped up toward the darkly-clad man, a new terror in his eyes as the dog barked and tried to get close to him. "N-no!" Hogan stammered, struggling to get his footing but failing miserably. He ended up sitting in the snow and pushing himself as far as possible up against the door. "No—don't take me back there—don't—" He continued his battle to stand, and managed to get up and stumble a couple of feet before falling hard. "_Newkirk, go!_" he managed through what could only be described as a desperate sob. Then Hogan suddenly stopped struggling, collapsed in the snow, and was still.

Newkirk ran back to the barn, dropping to his knees beside Hogan and cradling his former commanding officer in his arms. He was past caring who saw the tears he shed for his friend as he whispered, "It'll be all right, gov'nor. I'll look after you now."


	10. And Found

No ownership of the _Hogan's Heroes_ characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, original characters and storyline belong to Wordybirds. Thanks.

* * *

A man who's good enough to shed his blood for his country is good enough to get a square deal afterwards.

—Theodore Roosevelt

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**And Found**

General Walters had made arrangements for Newkirk and Hogan to be transferred to Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington DC as soon as Hogan's condition had been stabilized. That didn't bother Newkirk, because he knew that Rob would get the best medical care possible. _No, what bothers me is that I'm stuck in this ruddy bed and no one's telling me what's going on!_

A nurse walked in with a couple of pills in a small cup and a smile on her face. "Good afternoon, sir," she said politely. "The doctor's asked for you to take these to help speed up your recovery." She put the cup on the bedside table and poured a glass of water from the jug sitting on his trolley. "How are you feeling?" she asked, concerned. "The wrapping around your ribs too tight? Are you uncomfortable?"

Newkirk palmed the pills without even thinking about it, then took a swallow of the water to convince the nurse he'd taken them. Handing back the glass, he gave her a long look. "Too bloody right I'm 'uncomfortable'! I want to know what's going on with General Hogan, and I want to know now, so if you can't tell me anything I suggest you get someone in here who can!"

The nurse took a step back, her face registering both surprise at the Englishman's hostility, and a little hurt. "I'll get someone for you," she said softly. She turned and walked back to the door, then looked back at Newkirk. "And I suggest you actually take those pills, if you want to get better. There's no sedative in them—and maybe they'll be good for your demeanor."

"Look, miss... I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you; it's just that I need to know what's going on." Newkirk lay back and sighed. "I'm not usually like this. I'm really sorry for going off on you like that."

The nurse smiled knowingly as she came back to the bedside. "Believe it or not, I understand," she said. "It's not like you're the first one with a war buddy you want to look after. I'll get the General's doctor in to see you as soon as he can." She held out her hand. "In the meanwhile," she said expectantly, "let's see them. I want to watch those pills go right down your snappy little throat." A twinkle in her eye betrayed the apparent harshness of her words.

Newkirk opened his hand, looked at the small white pills, then looked up at the nurse with a smile. "You're good, you know that, love? There's not many around that can catch me in the act, if you follow my meaning." He tossed the pills into his mouth and quickly washed them down. "See? All gone now." He grinned for a moment as he opened his mouth to show that he really had taken them.

The nurse nodded. "That's a good boy," she praised approvingly. "I'll get the doctor down here soon." She turned again and left the room, leaving Newkirk on his own.

---- ---- ---- ----

A dull ache in his side finally made Newkirk turn onto his back, and the movement woke him up a little as his body protested the change of position. He shoved the pillow off the bed and tried to get comfortable on the firm mattress. That quickly proved to be impossible, so he sighed and opened his eyes.

"Well, it's about time you woke up." Newkirk blinked the sleep out of his eyes and found General Walters sitting nearby. "Come to think of it, it's about time you got some sleep. I know I could sure use some."

"Pop! Is there any news about the Colonel?" Newkirk sat up—slowly.

Walters nodded. "Hogan's still asleep. The doctors have decided to keep him knocked out for a while to give his body a chance to rest before they start trying to deal with his mind. And they want to talk to you before they let him wake up."

"Well, I'll tell them everything I can. Not that I understand all of it..." Newkirk's voice trailed off as he thought about the events of the last several hours.

"I'm sure that anything you can tell them will help." Walters eyed the Englishman for a long moment, and shook his head. "What am I going to do with the two of you? It wasn't bad enough that he took off in the middle of the night; you had to go and make things worse by breaking out and going after him."

"I had to go after him. He would have done the same for me." Newkirk went quiet, recalling the scene at the barn as he spoke. Then he asked softly, "What's going to happen to the gov'nor? I mean, what will the Air Force do with him now?"

Walters paused at Newkirk's disquiet. "We'll support him," he answered. "A man of Hogan's caliber deserves no less. He went through the Hell he's remembering now for the sake of the Allies; there's no chance that we'll let him go through it again on his own. I'll see to that myself."

Newkirk nodded, trusting in Walters's word. But the image of Hogan terrified in the barn, locked in his past, was still overwhelming. "He was scared, Pop. He was so bloody scared."

Walters stared at the floor. "It would have been frightening—terrifying—for him to go through that Hell the _first_ time. The _second_ time around… Quite frankly, I'm amazed he had the presence of mind to organize an escape; I don't know if_ I_ would have."

Newkirk felt sick inside imagining the terror Hogan would have suffered. But still, his Colonel had somehow risen above it, to try and keep Newkirk—a virtual stranger in his muddled mind—out of danger. "This morning, even when he thought everything was hopeless, he was trying to protect me."

Walters nodded grimly. "Hogan's one of a kind. A leader, a protector, no matter what situation he finds himself in." He paused, then shot Newkirk a look of censure. "Still, you shouldn't have run after him. You could have made things a lot worse for both of you by charging out of the hospital on a stubborn streak."

"Well, Pop, there's not much you can do about it now." Newkirk grinned. "Besides, as I've pointed out in the past, we're not in the same Army—hell, I'm not even in the Royal bloody Air Force anymore. That means you can't have me shot and you can't have me cashiered. Sir."

Walters shook his head. "No, but I _can_ have you kept here until I'm satisfied you're obeying Doctor's orders. If Uncle Sam is picking up the tab, you can be damned certain he'll get the job done right."

---- ---- ---- ----

Newkirk was left feeling completely drained after the long conversation with the doctors about Hogan's actions and apparent state of mind both at home and during the time they'd spent in the barn. They'd kept questioning him about the smallest details until only the thought that it might somehow help his friend kept him from going around the bend himself.

The Englishman settled himself onto a chair next to Hogan's bed with a sigh. The doctors were now going to allow their patient to wake up so they could start to evaluate his mental condition, and Newkirk had insisted that he had to be there. He was far too worried about Hogan's reaction to waking up alone in a hospital again to be stuck in a bed himself elsewhere.

Turning the chair around to sit facing his friend, Newkirk studied Hogan's pale features, noting how tired he looked, even in his sleep. _You never cease to amaze me, gov'nor. Confused and hurting, not even quite sure who I was, you still offered to give yourself up to save me. You're a far better man than I could ever be, Robert Hogan, and that's why I'm proud to have been under your command, and prouder still that you call me your friend._

Newkirk gently took Hogan's hand into his own, hoping that even in his sleep, the Colonel would somehow know he was there. Leaning back, the Englishman closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts. _God? It's Peter Newkirk again, Sir. Seems like I'm always asking for something here lately, but the gov'nor still needs Your help if he's gonna get through this. That's all I'm asking for now, that he comes out of this in one piece. He's been through so much already—more than I'll ever know about or be able to understand... so is it asking too much for him to have a chance to heal the wounds he's carried inside for so very long? I'm not very good at this asking for help kind of thing as You may have noticed by now... but can You see Your way clear to doing what You can for him anyway?_

---- ---- ---- ----

Hogan opened his eyes and for the briefest second had no memory. Then quite suddenly his panic came flooding back and his eyes darted around the room wildly as he struggled in spite of his pain to sit up and escape. "N-_no_! N—I've got to—get out! No more—"

Newkirk was up and out of his chair within seconds, gently restraining Hogan's flailing arms as the man thrashed about in his terror and tried to break free. "Hold it, hold it there, gov'nor, now hold on just a minute. You're safe now, mate. You're in the States. You're in an American hospital. We're not in the war any more, you hear me?" he said, continuing to talk as Hogan started calming down. "You're back home. You were in a car accident and you got confused, but you're all right now. No one's going to hurt you. All right?"

Hogan's resistance came to an abrupt halt, and his eyes returned to the present as his brain slowly absorbed Newkirk's words. He lay back on the bed, sore and drained, and repeated to himself what he had been told. And though he was still, his eyes scanned the room, trying to recognize and accept his surroundings, his mind visibly sifting through the horrific, insistent images coming at him, and trying to sort them into either reality or hallucination.

With an almost physical force, they suddenly all fell into place, and Newkirk could only watch as Hogan finally collided head-on with an all-too-real past that up to now he had been fortunate to bury deep in his subconscious. His expression transformed from one of confusion and fear to one of sheer anguish. Newkirk bit his lip and turned his face away, unable to bear the sight when his friend opened his mouth in a silent, tormented cry of emotional pain. Then Hogan released a loud wail of pure agony that once begun, he could not stop. The heaving sobs that followed filled the room, wrapping both himself and his visitor in his devastation. "They're real," Hogan cried through his ragged breaths. "They're real, they're real, they're real…." He wept long and loud, seeing nothing but his own despair. "No… no, no, no, no…"

Newkirk turned back to Hogan, his heart breaking just imagining what Hogan was remembering, sharply recalling the Colonel's tortured mental state when he was brought to Stalag 13, reliving all the things he had told the doctors here that Hogan had said, and done, and gone through in the last twenty-four hours. As Hogan's cries started to weaken, the Englishman laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. Hogan did not respond, but his breathing slowed, and eventually his body stopped trembling, and he was asleep, emotionally and physically exhausted. Newkirk left his hand on Hogan's shoulder for a minute and searched the man's face, then sat back down in his chair, to await Hogan's next confrontation with reality.

---- ---- ---- ----

When Hogan opened his eyes next, there was no emotional outburst. He was too weary and too overwhelmed to go through that again. He merely blinked tiredly at the ceiling, letting all the smells and sounds of the hospital wash over him.

Newkirk moved in cautiously, hovering. "You awake, then, gov'nor?" he asked.

Hogan nodded almost invisibly, wearily. His face still carried the shock of his earlier experience, and he was still, very still, as though he were afraid to move.

"Do you know where you are? I mean, you know you're safe now, right?" he said gently.

Hogan continued running the images in his brain before him on the ceiling. As much as he wanted to look away, to block them, he couldn't. He had to watch, and let them torture him again. He didn't answer.

"Rob?"

Hogan's eyes briefly left the ceiling and alit on Newkirk. "Yeah," he whispered, and then his eyes returned to the ceiling, filling with tears. "I'm home."

_Some of you is_, Newkirk thought with pity. He was careful not to let his thoughts show as he gave Hogan a gentle smile. "That's right, Rob. You're home."

One tear slipped out of Hogan's eye, plunging down the side of his face and disappearing into his dark hair, which was damp with the fever of struggle and illness. "Home…" he whispered. He took short, sharp breaths through his mouth and continued to stare at the ceiling. "Home."

"The war is over, Rob, has been for a while. You're safe now, and no one here is going to hurt you in any way; you have my word on that." Newkirk spoke quietly, putting as much reassurance into his voice as he possibly could.

Hogan let his eyes drift shut, though Newkirk suspected he was seeing the same things inside his mind that he had projected onto the ceiling. "I'm sorry, Peter," Hogan whispered. "I'm sorry."

Newkirk took Hogan's hand in a firm grip. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, mate. Nothing at all."

Hogan shook his head weakly, passed his tongue over his dry lips. "Dragged you into this…. Made a mess… of everything."

"No more apologies, Rob. None of it is your fault. And as for draggin' me into it, you didn't. I'm here because I want to be, and I'm afraid you're stuck with me." Newkirk smiled for a moment. "You might say I volunteered, if you can believe that, gov'nor."

"You've got a wife… business… You go," Hogan said, never opening his eyes. Newkirk wondered for a moment if Hogan wasn't going to fall asleep talking to him. "Go… leave me here."

Newkirk leaned forward, speaking intently. "Now you listen here, Robert Hogan, 'cause I'm gonna keep saying this until you understand it. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. The fellows I've got working in the shop can keep things going just fine, and as for my wife, she'd disown me in a flash if I abandoned you like that." He gripped Hogan's hand tightly. "You wouldn't leave me if the situation were reversed, so don't think you're gonna get rid of me. You got that, sir?"

Hogan's answer was a light sigh, and a tightening of his hold on Newkirk's hand that then loosened and released. Then the soft sound of steady breathing told Newkirk that Hogan had indeed fallen back to sleep, and Newkirk could only hope that his friend could accept the help that he so desperately needed.

---- ---- ---- ----

A day later, the doctors taking care of Hogan and Newkirk had surrendered to the inevitable and had put both men into a room together. The General seemed more at ease and able to sleep better when his English friend was nearby, and the Englishman flatly refused to stay in his own room and rest. After being moved, Newkirk had checked on Hogan, then finally given in to his body's demand for sleep.

It was during this long-put-off rest that Hogan woke up and, feeling that it might be unwise but determined anyway, he decided to get up and check out his friend for himself. Hogan swung his feet over the side of the bed and stopped, dizziness causing him to sway drunkenly, and bruised muscles now stiff from lack of movement leaving him gasping for breath. He waited until the feeling of nausea passed and stood up, holding onto the bed for support, and then made the exhausting trip a few feet across the room.

Newkirk was lying on his stomach with his arm tucked under his head. The pillow had long ago been shoved off and was near the foot of the bed. Hogan shook his head. _Old habits die hard_, he thought, remembering the pillow-less years back at Stalag 13. It had taken Hogan himself more than six months to get used to having something soft to lay his head on again. The blankets were also pushed off. Hogan leaned down carefully to replace the blankets, thinking that Newkirk's less-than-healthy body shouldn't be exposed to the open air, when he noticed the Englishman was sweating. He moved a hand in to touch his skin; it was warm, and on closer inspection Newkirk's breathing didn't seem very smooth either.

Hogan frowned and moved back toward the other side of the room. Sticking his head out the door, he called to the first person he could see—a duty nurse, turned the other way. "Nurse?" he called. "I think we need you."

The nurse put down her chart and walked toward Hogan. "Yes, General? What can I do for you?"

"Newkirk's not well. He's sweating and he's hot to the touch and I don't think he's breathing very well." Hogan backed out of the doorway to let the nurse into the room. He followed her as she approached Newkirk's bed.

"Thank you for calling me." The nurse picked up the blankets, and glanced at Hogan as she put them into the laundry hamper. "Now, sir, please get back to bed before you fall down. I'll go call the doctor and get some more blankets for your friend." She took Hogan by the arm to help him to his bed.

"But I need to—keep an eye on him," Hogan protested as she started smoothing blankets over him.

"And we need to keep an eye on you. That's what we're here for. Don't worry; we'll look after your friend. You try to look after yourself."

Hogan was still tired, more exhausted than he had been in a long time, but he was worried. Wanting to pace, but knowing it would probably result in him falling over, Hogan resorted to taking breaths as deep as he could manage, and staring intently at Newkirk in order to stay awake, so he could get the full report from the doctor when he arrived to look at the Englishman.

His eyes were closed when the doctor came in a short time later. After a couple of quiet minutes, the physician was surprised by a voice from behind him. "Pneumonia?"

The doctor turned around to see Hogan struggling to open his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

"Pneumonia, is he getting pneumonia?" Hogan repeated.

The doctor considered before he answered. "That's possible, yes."

"Saw it a lot in the camp," Hogan said. "It's not good."

"Medicine is different now, General. Your friend will be fine," the doctor said reassuringly.

"Better be," Hogan said, his voice fading. "I haven't had a chance to give him hell for following me out into the night in the first place. When he gets well, I'm going to kill him!"


	11. Back in Hiding

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, original characters and storyline belong to wordybirds. Thanks.

* * *

You can clutch the past so tightly to your chest, that it leaves your arms too full to embrace the present.

—Jane Glidewell

--- --- --- --- ---

**Chapter Eleven**

**Back In Hiding**

"I told them I could walk," Hogan complained, as the orderly parked the wheelchair in front of the desk and left the small office.

The man behind the desk smiled sympathetically. "Let them spoil you while they're still willing. It doesn't last long enough nowadays!" he said. He stood and extended his hand. "Major Vincent Wheeler, US Army Air Corps, Medical Division. Formerly from Stalag 19."

Hogan raised an eyebrow as he accepted the gesture. "Robert Hogan," he said unnecessarily. He shifted uncomfortably in the wheelchair.

"If you're really anxious to get out of that chair, General, why don't you join me over here?" Wheeler indicated a pair of softer, high-backed chairs set away from the desk and moved toward them.

Hogan stood up, biting his lip as soreness from the prodding of the physical examination he had just endured came to the fore. He eased himself into one of the chairs. "POW, huh?" Hogan asked.

Wheeler ignored the beads of sweat that had broken out on Hogan's face from the exertion of the move. "That's right," he answered. "May I call you Robert? This really isn't the place for rank to get in the way." Hogan nodded. "Vince," he said, pointing to himself. "I hate Vincent. Anyway, yes. Caught in September '44. I understand you were a prisoner, too."

"I'll just bet you do," Hogan said before he could stop himself. Wheeler let his eyebrows rise up but he didn't answer. Hogan looked up at him with only token guilt. "Sorry."

Wheeler shrugged offhandedly. "No apologies necessary."

But Hogan continued. "It's just that _everyone_ seems to know about me."

Wheeler cocked his head. "Know about you?"

"You know—the nutcase who ran out in a snowstorm thinking the Krauts were after him—two years after he left Germany." Hogan's voice betrayed his shame and anguish.

The tone wasn't lost on Wheeler. "Is that how you see it?"

Hogan stared at the wheelchair near the desk and said nothing.

"Robert," Wheeler said softly, "some of the men who went to Germany came back with more debilitating injuries than those that could be fixed up in an operating room." He watched closely as Hogan's face mapped his journey back in time—whether to the other night, or to the time of the original events, Wheeler didn't know. But it was a trip that was clearly causing Hogan to suffer. "And some of those men are still haunted by their experiences. Would you call them nutcases?"

"Of course not," Hogan answered sharply.

"Then why insist on that label for yourself?"

Hogan thought for a long time, still seeing, hearing, feeling his past. "I didn't want to believe it was true." He stopped and watched again. "I didn't want it to be real." Finally, he closed his eyes. "I went off the deep end. I don't even remember where I _was_ a couple of days ago." He looked at Wheeler with eyes full of torment. "It was all coming at me again, but I couldn't figure out that it was a dream!"

Wheeler shook his head. "But it wasn't a dream, was it?" he asked quietly.

Hogan shook his head, his eyes becoming glassy. "No," he whispered, near tears.

"What was it?"

Another long pause. Hogan stared straight ahead. To the untrained eye, he would have appeared to have tuned out, but Wheeler knew the man was deep, very deep, in his thoughts, reliving events that could be both unconscionable and unforgettable. "It was real," Hogan breathed. Wheeler waited. "They used me like a lab rat. They tied me up and pushed me around, and when I was exhausted, they picked me up like a rag doll and made me do more…." Wheeler once again let the silence remain unfilled. Hogan's voice got softer and weaker as his visions got stronger and clearer. "They drugged me. They beat me…. They electrocuted me…. They said they had singled me out for special treatment." Hogan stopped and suddenly squeezed his eyes shut as excruciating memories filled his head. He put a hand up to his face, feeling a shudder run through his body as unbidden tears rolled down his face. "_It hurt so much_," Hogan said eventually, his voice breaking. Another pause, then, devastated by the realization: "_I wanted to die_."

"But you didn't. You got through it."

Hogan laughed bitterly, wiping the tears way from his face. "You call this getting through it?" he retorted. "I don't know about you, but this wasn't exactly how I planned on spending my post-war years."

"Actually, Robert, I _do_ call this getting through it." Wheeler held up a hand to pre-empt any comments. "The key word there is 'getting.' I'm not going to give you a snow job and say it'll be okay and things will be back to the way they were before the war tomorrow. But what I _will_ say is that you have gotten through a lot already, and that you can get through the rest. The fact that you're sitting here right now is proof of that."

Hogan shook his head. "No thanks to me, that's for sure," he said. "I can't talk about this any more," he said abruptly. "I need to check on Newkirk." Hogan pulled himself up from the chair, again with unhidden difficulty that he didn't let slow him down. "_He's_ the one who made sure I got here today, by trekking around in the snow looking for me when I took off, physically and mentally. You're wasting your time trying to sort this out. Thanks all the same." A sharp pain near his temple pulled Hogan up short, and he gripped the back of the wheelchair and hissed through his teeth. "Let me go back to my room," he said. "I'm tired." And he sank down into the chair, emotionless, as though waiting for the orderly to bring him back to wanted isolation as Newkirk slept on. He could look after his friend, as he had always done during the war, and forget all over again… if he was lucky.

Wheeler stood and took hold of the wheelchair's handles. "That's fine, Robert. You go do what you have to do, and we'll talk another time." He pushed the chair into the outer office and asked his clerk to arrange for Hogan to get back to his room.

Major Wheeler picked up his phone after settling behind his desk and started dialing. Once he got past the various desk jockeys at the Pentagon, he was finally able to talk with General Walters. "General? Major Wheeler, staff psychiatrist over at Walter Reed. I understand, sir, that you've asked to be kept in the loop concerning General Hogan's case." A pause while Walters spoke. "I've got a problem, sir. They sent over the General's personnel records, but there's a huge chunk of them missing: everything from July 1942 through to the end of the war…. Classified?" _Great._ "Look, sir, I can't do my job and take care of Hogan without knowing what happened to him during that time…. Thank you, General Walters. I appreciate your help with this."

Wheeler hung up the phone and sighed. _Classified records and a patient who's not ready to talk. This is going to be a tough one, Vince_. Shaking his head, Wheeler pulled out a notebook and started writing up his notes from his first meeting with Robert Hogan. _The first of many, Robert…and the sooner we can get through your barriers, the better off you'll be._

--- --- --- --- ---

Hogan nodded weary thanks to the orderly and watched as the young man closed the door. Shuffling to Newkirk's bedside, he watched the rising and falling of the Englishman's chest, trying to satisfy himself that the doctor's words had been correct and his friend would recover well. He had seen too much of pneumonia in Germany—the cold winters, the lack of adequate heat and blankets and supplies. Too many fine young men had succumbed and went to an early grave.

_Medicine is different now_, Hogan reminded himself. He looked closely at Newkirk's face, trying to take in everything that had happened in the last couple of days, and trying to figure out what he had ever done to deserve the unequalled loyalty of the man before him. _Thank you, my friend_, Hogan thought.

Hogan wanted to sit by the bed as he knew Newkirk had done for him, but his body was aching and he longed for rest. _I hope you're having pleasant dreams_, he thought fleetingly as he turned away from his friend. Hogan lifted himself gingerly back into bed, sinking wearily into the mattress and the pillows. His chest hurt. _I must be due for pain relief soon_, Hogan realized, as his arm and side throbbed in time with his head. Normally determined to avoid dependence on any medication, this time Hogan was ready for it—if it brought on oblivion, and a respite from his memories, he would take as much as they would offer.


	12. Secrets

No ownership of the _Hogan's Heroes_ characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, original characters and storyline belong to Wordybirds. Thanks.

---- ---- ---- ----

Don't worry about what's ahead. Just go as far as you can go—from there you can see farther.

—Cited in "Bits & Pieces"

---- ---- ---- ----

**Chapter Twelve**

**Secrets**

Trying to turn over in his sleep proved to be a bad idea, as Newkirk found out when it triggered a coughing fit. He lay back as the coughs subsided, glad it hadn't lasted very long. Pushing the covers off, he closed his eyes and concentrated on simply breathing. That also proved to be a bad idea, as it brought on a much longer spell of coughing. Newkirk leaned forward after riding it out, taking short, gasping breaths that left him feeling dizzy. His hand shook as he wiped the sweat from his face, and he frowned as he raked his hair back out of his eyes.

"Y'all right?" Hogan's slurred voice reached Newkirk, and he turned carefully to see the American apparently just waking up from a sleep of his own. Hogan tried to sit up, struggling as he pushed his sore body to obey his instructions. "You need me to get the doctor?" He willed the nauseous feeling in his stomach to go away and took a couple of difficult breaths as he prepared to swing himself out of bed to help his friend.

"Evenin', gov'nor." Newkirk put a smile on his face and motioned for Hogan to stay put. "At least I think it's evening; hard to say in here. I'm fine, just tried to sit up too fast is all."

"Good," Hogan said, meaning it and collapsing back on the bed. "We make a great pair, don't we?" he observed wryly.

"All that's missing is Le Beau fussing over you, Carter sitting around with that hang-dog look of his," Newkirk paused to catch his breath before continuing, "and Kinch doing his best not to tell Le Beau to sit down and take five."

Hogan smiled for a second, then stopped as the thought stirred up both good and painful memories. "The doctor says you'll be fine," he said, changing the subject. "Just need to keep you in one place for awhile."

"What? And leave all this?" Newkirk's gesture took in the entire room. _And leave you here alone? No chance, mate._

"I guess you're right. Since Le Beau can't fuss over you at the moment, I'll have to get the medical staff here do it," Hogan agreed. He paused for a moment, thinking, and let a silence descend between them that neither seemed anxious to break. Finally, Hogan asked softly, "Why did you come after me, Newkirk? Why did you follow when I ran out in the middle of the night when you were sick?"

Newkirk looked at his friend, knowing Hogan was still bewildered about his whole experience after the party, and knowing that there would be an element of guilt at the Englishman's poor health lurking somewhere as well. "I promised you I wouldn't leave you on your own, gov'nor," Newkirk answered. "And that offer didn't depend on the weather."

Hogan felt near tears again. _Damn, I'm losing my mind!_ He closed his eyes and collected himself before he answered. "Thanks," he said, unable to think of the words to go with his feelings.

"No thanks necessary, Rob." Newkirk spoke quietly. "You would have done the same for me." He paused for a moment. "I wouldn't be here today if you hadn't come after me a few times over the years."

Hogan fell silent. A headache started to reappear behind his eyes as he recalled a few of the incidents of which Newkirk was speaking. Though he was sure he had slept for some time, he was starting to feel very tired again, but he fought it, and worried about what his mind would concoct if he fell asleep again while remembering the past. He no longer trusted himself not to go screaming out into the snow—after all, he hadn't expected it the first time. _What if it happened again?_

Newkirk watched as Hogan rubbed his hand across his face, a sure sign that his former commanding officer was getting a headache. He'd seen that happen often enough in the past to be certain of it now. "Sorry, gov'nor. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories." The Englishman lay back with a sigh. _I meant what I said, but I've got to be more careful about what I say to him. I can't let on that I feel like I'm walking on eggshells around him just now; that'd only make him feel worse than he already does._

Hogan didn't answer. He was back in the past again and watching everything happen. Newkirk's words had been only a small part of his regression; his mind was driving him there all on its own. The Dulag was real. The Hohemark was real. Wetzlar was real. How could he face that again? Troubled, he forced himself to speak. "They were memories, Newkirk," Hogan announced in a voice dulled by exhaustion and defeat. "They weren't nightmares. It all really happened." His blank stare disappeared as he dissolved in tears. "It all really happened," he said again, devastated. "_And I can feel it all!_"

Hogan closed his eyes and cried silently. Then he shook his head and visibly tried to bring himself under control. "I feel like… I'm going crazy," he managed. "One minute I'm just numb; the next I can't stop crying. I think I'm having a nervous breakdown!"

Newkirk shook his head. "No you're not, gov'nor," he said gently. "You've just got a lot of grieving to catch up on. The Germans, they took a lot from you back then. But we'll get it back. I promise you we'll get it back."

"I don't know if I can," Hogan said in a small voice.

Newkirk's heart broke once more at this once-strong man's deep vulnerability. "Sure you can, gov'nor. And I'll be right here to help make sure you do."

"I went there, you know," Hogan said, still whispering, still not looking at Newkirk. "I went to Nuremberg." Newkirk gave a start, but stilled himself when he realized Hogan was about to let go of some of his deepest secrets. "They wanted me to testify, but I couldn't remember enough to be of any use. So they asked me to watch, to see if hearing what happened to the others could help jog my memory. Earlier this month, they started a trial of Nazis involved in experimentation on prisoners. It made me sick to my stomach, but it didn't help me to remember." Hogan stopped as he realized the irony of what he'd just said. "So I thought," he added. "But they were talking about high altitude experiments and freezing experiments on POWs… Drug trials…" Hogan's voice dropped to below a whisper. "And that's what they did to me."

"Dear God, Rob," Newkirk whispered, staring at his friend in shock. "I knew from the way you were the day you arrived at Stalag 13 that the Krauts had used you badly. But I had no idea exactly what they'd done... none of us did." Newkirk closed his eyes, remembering the silent, withdrawn man that had been brought into the barracks that long-ago day. _That explains a lot of what the gov'nor said, and a lot of what he didn't say, those first few days. And to think that his own government would try and force him to remember it all! I'd like to see them all in Hell someday! _

"I thought only evil people went to Hell," Hogan said softly, regretfully. "But I went there. And they kept me alive so I could experience it over and over again. Just for a little while, I was lucky enough to forget it." A pause. "But I'll never forget it now. Never."

Newkirk slowly pushed himself upright, one arm wrapped tightly across his chest hoping to ward off a coughing spell. He paused, then swung his feet off the side of the bed, sitting there as he waited to catch his breath. "Listen, mate. I know you'd just as soon pack the whole thing up, shove it off in some corner of your head and never think on it again." Another pause to catch his breath. "I know because I tried it myself. Now I realize that nothing I went through holds a candle to what they did to you, but it seems to me that it's sort of the same thing as far as facing up to it goes." Newkirk started to say something else, but was cut off by another round of coughing.

Hogan looked worriedly at his friend struggling to breathe with unhealthy lungs. "You need the doctor," he said. "I'll get him." He tried to brace his sore arm and side as he threw off the blankets and lifted his back up from the mattress. Truth be told, Hogan was almost glad of Newkirk's unwise movements—it gave him a chance to divert attention from himself. He should never have said anything to Newkirk about Nuremberg, or about any of the things the Nazis had done to him. That was his private shame. His private torture. He didn't want anyone else to have to share it. He resolved again to keep the details to himself, and maybe, just maybe, he could push them so far back into his mind again that he would forget….

Holding up a hand to stop Hogan, Newkirk shook his head emphatically. "Not this time, gov'nor. You'll not change the subject until I've had my say, so lay back there and listen."

"Look, you're not well enough to play Sigmund Freud with me right now, Newkirk—leave that to the experts, who by the way will _also_ fail." Hogan stood up but found himself light-headed and had to grip the side of the bed to stop himself from falling flat on his face.

Newkirk frowned. "Now there's a word I never thought I'd hear you say: 'Fail.' The way I remember it, that was never an option far as you were concerned. How many times did we all say that some plan or other never had a chance, but you never listened to that kind of talk and always made it come out right in the end?" Coughing nearly bent the Englishman over double, but he straightened up as soon as it passed and gave Hogan a long look.

Hogan looked up from where he was still standing with his arms supporting him against the bed. "I was only dealing with power-hungry Nazis and downed flyers back then, not some weak-minded American Colonel who can't tell Germany from his own back yard." He closed his eyes and felt every nerve in his body wishing for rest and peace. "You're not well," he said finally, almost breathlessly. "Sit back and I'll find someone." But though his words signified action, he wasn't moving, as though his brain were rebelling. Hogan couldn't fight it, and so he just stood, motionless, not willing to face his friend, in front of whom he felt he had lost all of the dignity and respect that had once bound them together. Newkirk had become his protector—it was a job Hogan didn't want the Englander to have. Because Newkirk had enough things to deal with on his own. And because it meant that Hogan had been beaten. And though he believed that to be true, Hogan didn't want the constant reminder of it. And so he insisted on looking after Newkirk instead. "Get back into bed," he said softly.

Newkirk felt more and more distressed as he listened to his friend. Hogan had always been his own worst critic, but there was more to this than the usual berating himself for a mission gone wrong. This time, it felt like Hogan had completely lost faith in himself. _Blimey, I'm startin' to feel that I'm not only up the creek here, I don't even have a ruddy boat, much less an oar!_ Newkirk shook his head, and gestured toward Hogan's own bed. "You first, sir."

Hogan left his head bowed low. "Please, Newkirk…" he said.

"All right, gov'nor," Newkirk replied after a moment. He carefully swung his feet back up onto the bed, then gave Hogan an expectant look. "Your turn now, unless you're plannin' on making me come over there and pick you up off the bloody floor."

"Not a chance," Hogan said weakly. He dragged himself into bed and lay back. "Peter…" he started. Then he decided against it and stopped.

"Yes, Rob? You were saying...?" Newkirk let his voice trail off, hoping Hogan would pick up on it and respond.

Hogan lay still for a moment, just concentrating on breathing in and out. How could he tell his friend that while his friendship meant everything to him, it was killing him to need it so much? "I want you to go see Kinch and Andrew as planned. I don't want you to stay here with me. If what everyone is trying _not_ to say is any indication, even if I _do_ get myself sorted out, it will be years before I'm considered well. And I don't think you have that much time up your sleeve. I don't want you to be my nursemaid. It's not… It wasn't supposed to be that way."

Newkirk pulled the blankets up to give himself time to think of a response. The movement made him cough again, and he lay back gasping for breath. When he could speak, he glanced at Hogan and shrugged. "You won't be rid of me that easy, mate, as I don't think the doctors are gonna let me go anytime soon. Now, as far as playing 'nursemaid' goes, it's not that way, Rob... and it never was." Newkirk shook his head. "You never needed someone to hold your hand; what you needed was someone to watch your back while you were out in front making the big play. That was my job." He paused to catch his breath. "You didn't assign me that job; it's the one that I took on for myself because it had to be done. If I'm still doing it now, well... it's because I want to. No one made me go out after you, and no one would have said a word against me if I'd stayed in hospital and let someone else do it." Another pause. "No one, except me."

"_But I don't want you to_," Hogan said. He was sure he was sounding ungrateful, and he regretted it. But how could he possibly explain? "You have a life to live now, you've gotten past the war. I'm stuck in it, and I'll be in it forever." He stopped as a clear memory flashed through his mind and sent him reeling. He trembled and closed his eyes, then willed himself to continue. "Please, Peter," he whispered, "it's not that I don't appreciate it… it's just that I don't think I can share this… not with a friend. It's not fair to burden you with it."

"Nonsense."

"I can't, Peter. Please, don't ask me to." All this pleading for peace was wearing Hogan out. He didn't want to talk about his past. He didn't want to discuss it with Wheeler, and he didn't want to discuss it with Newkirk. He just wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear. And most painful to him of all was the realization that this was exactly the way he felt when he was first brought to Stalag 13 after suffering through the Dulag, the Hohemark, and Wetzlar. He was right back where he started.

Newkirk closed his eyes and took a few breaths, stalling while he tried to work out what he wanted to say. Finally opening his eyes, he looked over at Hogan. "Listen to me, Rob, you've got to talk to someone about it and soon, before it really does drive you 'round the bend. And listen to what you're saying. You've convinced yourself that you're gonna just give up and let this thing beat you. I want to know why, because you didn't let the Nazis beat you in 1942. You survived everything they threw at you, and then came right back at them so fast they never knew what hit them."

The Englishman paused, as much to let his words sink in as to catch his breath. "If you give up now, you let them win, and if that happens, everything you went through, everything we did together at Stalag 13... it'll all have been for nothing."

"We did good then, you know," Hogan said softly. "We pulled off an awful lot of stuff that no one thought we could."

"That we did, Rob. That we did."

"Sometimes I think back to those days and I wonder how in God's name we ever made it out of there alive." Once again, the General felt himself dangerously close to tears. "But I was different then, Peter. I didn't remember any of this then. I survived because I blocked it all out. I functioned because I didn't have to think about the Hell they put me through. Once I remembered, I became a blithering idiot—a foolish man who can't operate in the present. Everything we did then was for good, Peter. But now…now, I can't go back."

"Then don't," Newkirk replied softly. "You can't go back to the past; no one can. But you can accept that it happened and move on. And somewhere along the way, Rob, remember that it's all right to forgive yourself for only being human."

"I've got no problem being human," Hogan said. "I just wish I could feel like one again." He closed his eyes and focused on the pain in his chest to help him forget the pain in his heart. "Everything I thought I was… is a sham. I thought I was a strong man, a mentally focused man. And now…" He shook his head. "I don't know who I am any more."

"It wasn't a sham. It was you dealing with everything the best way you knew how. In fact, you dealt with it far better than anyone could have ever expected. Most men would have either simply curled up and died, or caved in and told the Nazis everything. You didn't." Newkirk took a breath and held back the urge to start coughing again. "As for who you are, Robert Hogan: you're a man that I always have been, and always will be, proud to call my friend."

"I couldn't tell them, Peter," Hogan whispered. "I couldn't have lived with myself if I had told them." He paused. "And after awhile, they didn't care if I had anything to tell them anyway. What they wanted from me had nothing to do with Allied intelligence." _Time for a rest, Hogan. A long, long rest._ "You're a good friend, Peter. Don't think I haven't noticed what you've been trying to do. I'm just not ready to hear it yet."

"That's all right, Rob. I'll just keep saying it until you are." Newkirk smiled for a moment, then broke out in a long, harsh coughing spell that left him breathless and sore.

"Stop worrying about me," Hogan said with a frown. "Get yourself better first. Lie back and get some sleep. I'll join you… when I can do that without dreaming."

"Don't you worry none about me, mate. I'll be right as rain in a day or so." Newkirk pulled the blankets up under his chin and closed his eyes. "But that sleep thing sounds good... just you see that you get some for yourself as well."

"Set my alarm for 1952, would you? I might be ready to face the world by then... as long as you're still here when I wake up."

"You can count on it." _As long as it takes, Rob_. With that last thought, Newkirk finally allowed sleep to claim him.


	13. The Meaning of Friendship

No ownership of the _Hogan's Heroes_ characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to Wordybirds. Thanks.

Apologies for the major delay... ff-dot-net wasn't playing nice!

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It is one of the most beautiful compensations of this life that no man can sincerely try to help another without helping himself.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

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**Chapter Thirteen**

**The Meaning of Friendship**

"Peter, we have a bit of a problem."

Wheeler sat at his desk facing Newkirk a few days later, just as frustrated with Hogan's case as he had been when the General was first brought in to him. Hogan had listened to Wheeler, that was true, but he had fenced and parried his way through their sessions, revealing very little, and continuing to become more flippant and lightly sarcastic, a sure sign, thought Wheeler, of a man trying to avoid facing what he feared would be unbearable emotional pain. In desperation, Wheeler had read Hogan's file for easily the twelfth time, and finally decided to call in the man who had refused to leave Hogan's side—a man who was not only Hogan's friend now, but who, just as importantly, was with Hogan in Germany.

Newkirk raised an eyebrow, giving away his dubiousness before he could hide it. "Only a bit of one, sir?" he asked.

Wheeler smiled softly and nodded. "_Touché_," he said. "Okay, Peter, let's say we have a rather challenging problem, then, shall we? It concerns General Hogan."

_Right then, what's his angle?_ Newkirk put on his best poker face as he studied Wheeler. "What about him?"

"Well, you see, Peter, the problem is that the General doesn't seem quite ready to discuss what he's seeing and feeling at the moment." Wheeler paused. "And his military records are deemed 'Classified' until further notice. That gives me very little to work with when I'm trying to help him to get past the obviously painful past he is dealing with."

Newkirk nodded slightly, enough to indicate he'd heard Wheeler but not to imply that he agreed with what the man said. _Gotta be careful here._ "Go on, then."

"Well," Wheeler said, trying to warm to a subject even he wasn't completely comfortable with, "I was hoping you might be able to give me a little bit of background. You're Robert's friend; you obviously have a great deal of respect for the man. You must know something about what he's trying to cope with now."

_Oh, I know, Major. I know a lot of it, but even I don't know it all. Problem is, there's so much I can't tell you, with most of what we did still listed as "Classified." That, and the Colonel's told me things in confidence, and I can't betray him._ Newkirk nodded again, saying little in reply, but his words carried the full measure of his faith in and respect for Hogan. "He's the _gov'nor_, mate."

Wheeler took in and let out a long breath through his nose. It looked like _everyone_ was going to remain close-lipped. How the hell could he help Hogan with nothing but a few scraps to go on? "You told the advance team that he was incoherent in the barn, that he seemed locked in the past. What was he focusing on? Do you remember the events he was talking about?"

Newkirk shook his head, suddenly regretting that he'd said so much to the men who had found them in the barn. "No, that was from before he came to Stalag 13."

Wheeler sighed. "There was apparently significant trauma before he got to the prison camp that he's blocked out. You told the doctors at the hospital you were in before you got sent here that Robert talked about experiments. He himself told me that he was used as a 'lab rat.' Surely you understand that he will need to talk through these horrendous issues before he can move on. I just need to understand so I can help him."

Newkirk's eyes narrowed with an anger that even his best poker face couldn't hide. "Why, those ruddy—wait until I get out of here! I'll go down there and sort them out right quick for sellin' the Colonel out like that!" He tried to get up, but his anger had him coughing again and he had to stop.

Wheeler was out of his chair and ready to come to Newkirk's aid instantly. But the Englishman simply waved him away; he was used to these now less-frequent attacks and simply took the glass of water he was offered. But the fire in his eyes remained.

"Now hang on a minute," Wheeler said. "They're not 'selling him out.' His files have to record all relevant information. Don't you think it's relevant that he was abused by the Nazis? What do you think you're going to accomplish by helping him bury his pain? He won't get any better. He won't be able to move on. He's close, he's very close. He's told me some things that I can use, but he continually holds back. And until he allows himself to experience, just once, the raw agony that comes with facing it head-on, and understands that _he's not to blame_ for it, he will _never heal_. Think of how shocking it was for you to hear about it—and it didn't even happen to you! Now think of where Robert is right now, and what he must be living through, holding that pain inside." Wheeler let out a breath, almost spent from his heartfelt presentation. He shook his head and added softly, "It would be killing him." He paused. "I want to help free him from that pain."

Newkirk leaned back as Wheeler's words began to hit home. His anger quickly burned itself out, leaving him numb. Phrases like "He won't be able to move on" and "He will never heal" brought up echoes of what Newkirk himself had been saying to Hogan. It slowly dawned on the Englishman that he wasn't helping his friend by holding back. But why did the very thought of telling what he knew leave him feeling that he was betraying Hogan's trust? _I've got to do this, gov'nor, or you may never be able to find yourself again. I can only hope that one day, you'll be able to forgive me for what I'm about to do._ Speaking around the bitter taste of treason, Newkirk looked Wheeler in the eyes and softly replied, "Ask your questions. I'll tell you everything I know."

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Newkirk came back to the room two hours after he'd been taken out for an exam; at least that had been the excuse used to get him out of the room for his conversation with Wheeler. The orderly who had pushed the wheelchair helped him to the bed, and for once, he didn't put up a fuss about it. The Englishman sat on the edge, staring at the floor, but seeing in his mind some of the things he'd just been telling Wheeler about. It had been very hard to start talking, but once he'd begun, the words had come pouring out, leaving him feeling drained of every emotion except guilt. Newkirk just couldn't get past the idea that he'd betrayed Hogan by what he'd done.

Hogan, for his part, was finishing his dinner served on a tray at his bedside. He was a bit awkward, still using mainly his left hand, but in general he had made fairly good work of it and he swallowed a last bit of angel food cake before pushing it away and taking a deep breath. Newkirk didn't quite seem himself, but if there was one thing Hogan had learned in all the years they'd spent living out of each other's pockets at Stalag 13, it was that you couldn't just up and say that to Newkirk; that kind of intimacy had to be eased into. "That took a long time," Hogan observed casually. "Did they say you'll live?"

Looking up, Newkirk pulled himself out of his memories and put on his "Everything's all right with me" smile. "I think so, mate. Of course, some of that lot acted like they'd never seen a bloody Englishman before." He shrugged, trying to seem as casual as possible. "That, or the nurses were all taken with me good looks, charm and personality."

Hogan grinned. "_You're_ supposed to be the sick one, not _them_," he teased. Hogan sensed something was amiss, but still didn't want to come right out and ask. Instead, he changed the subject. "I never got around to thanking you properly for coming after me, Peter," he said, an awkwardness settling between them that Hogan recognized any time emotion was about to have a hand in his dealings with the Englishman. "You saved my life twice that night—once, by going to get help after the crash, and then by tracking me down." Hogan looked at his empty plate, still troubled when he thought of how close he had come to truly being lost forever. "I wouldn't have made it on my own." He paused. "Thank you."

Newkirk shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Rob. You'd have done the same for me." He then took his own turn at changing the subject, and smiled. "But what's that bit that _I'm_ supposed to be sick one all about? You wouldn't be tryin' to say something there, would you, mate?"

Hogan's eyebrows shot up in shocked innocence. "Me? Never!" he replied. "And anyway, I _do _worry about it, and I _do_ want you to accept that I'm grateful. I just have a really lousy way of showing it."

"I just hope you're as grateful when you see the proper mess I've made of your car." Newkirk shook his head. _Or when you learn that I've sold you out_.

"I haven't thought about it, really," Hogan admitted honestly. "But I bet it's in better shape than we ended up in." Hogan frowned, then launched in. "Is that what's worrying you? My car?"

Newkirk nodded. _Good. Now if I can just keep him thinking about the car instead of wondering about anything else... _"It's gonna take a fair bit of fixing up, if it can be fixed at all."

Hogan shook his head and smiled self-deprecatingly. "I won't be driving for awhile anyway. I don't expect they're going to trust me with sharp objects or heavy machinery any time soon." Newkirk didn't answer. "Peter?" Hogan prompted, growing more concerned. "It's not about the car, is it?" he said knowingly. "What happened with the doctor?"

"Nothing happened, Rob. It's like I said, some of them acted like they'd never seen an Englishman before. I tried to convince them that I was, of course, better than they were." Newkirk gave Hogan a grin. "But I suppose your doctors over here in the Colonies just had to find that out for themselves."

Hogan shook his head. "Peter, you're a great magician," he said, "but you're a lousy actor. I might be screwed up in the head, but even I can tell when you're doing the quick step. Now _give_."

Newkirk sighed, and ran his hand over his face before speaking. _Right. Here goes_. "I had a little chat with Doctor Wheeler today, Rob."

Hogan cocked his head questioningly. "Are you all right?" he asked, frowning again.

"No, sir, I'm not." Newkirk went silent for a long moment, then spoke very quietly as he continued. "He asked me about you: about what went on back at the barn, and about those nights you spent walking the floor at your place before that."

Hogan's once slightly buoyant mood sank. "Oh," he said simply, looking away and dropping his eyes.

"And... that's not all. I told him..." Newkirk's voice dropped to a whisper. "I told him about Stalag 13—some things about the operation, and those times when you'd been taken out for special sessions with the Gestapo. I also told him how without you, there wouldn't have even been an operation." By now, Newkirk couldn't face the man he felt he had betrayed. Staring at the floor, he went on. "You could say I told everything there was to tell. But I had to. Wheeler said that if he didn't know what had happened to you, that he couldn't help you deal with it all. And that's what matters to me the most: getting you the kind of help you need, even if it means losing you as a friend."

Hogan felt his stomach tightening as Newkirk revealed his deed. To have someone else know about these, his most intimate and painful experiences, was in itself a torture. Now, there would be no way he could push them away again. Now, there would be someone else who could prod and probe until he was raw with anguish. Now, he could never forget.

Hogan found his breath shaky when he tried to inhale deeply to focus himself. He put a hand to his stomach as he broke out in goose bumps, and he felt his blood pressure plunge as nausea made his stomach flip. Closing his eyes, he determinedly settled himself down, then looked over at his friend, who was sitting, turned away, head bowed.

"You know you did a couple of things wrong," Hogan started.

Newkirk had been dreading the moment that Hogan had found out what he'd done. Telling it all himself had left the Englishman feeling completely empty inside, and Hogan's words made him turn away even more. _This is it. I've lost him forever_.

Hogan said softly, his voice betraying no anger or emotion, "First of all, you probably broke the Official Secrets Act by telling Wheeler about the operation. The government doesn't care much for people doing that." He paused as Newkirk didn't move or turn to look at him. "Your other mistake was thinking I'd hate you for it." Newkirk blinked and straightened his posture as Hogan continued. "I can tell by looking at you, Peter, that you think you've done some horrible deed, and to tell you the truth, that's what it feels like—it makes my guts churn just to think about the kinds of things that Wheeler knows now." As if to prove his statement, a burning feeling ripped through him just then. Hogan grimaced and gave his abdomen a short rub. "I didn't even want _you _to know. But I understand why you did it," he said with a short nod. "And I'm grateful for your friendship."

"I don't care about any ruddy Official Secrets Act," Newkirk said quietly. He finally turned, slowly bringing his head up to look at Hogan. "I'll do twenty years at hard labor for what I've done, and be glad to do it knowing that I haven't lost you as a friend."

Hogan was touched, and his soft, genuine smile was like a tonic for Newkirk, who finally found himself able to smile back. "If doctor-patient confidentiality has any part in it, no one but you, I, and Wheeler will ever know you said a word." Hogan slid carefully out of bed, suddenly feeling weaker than he had expected—probably from the emotional drain of the conversation—and came to Newkirk's side. "You know, a lot of crummy things came out of World War Two," he said. He held out his hand, still bruised and slightly shaking, to his friend. "But you were one of the few upsides."

Newkirk stood and took Hogan's hand, being careful of his grip as he didn't want to cause any pain. "I've never told you this before, Rob, but meeting you at Stalag 13 and working for you all that time probably saved my life. Or at least saved me from spending the rest of it going in and out of one prison or another once I got back to England." He leaned over and gently embraced his friend. "You showed me that I could be a better man than the cynical bastard I had been up until then. For that, I'll always be grateful."

"Looks like you're spilling lots of secrets today," Hogan said with a smile that gently touched his eyes. "Listen, I think I've overdone it today; I'm worn out." Hogan turned away as Newkirk broke his embrace, knowing that the Englishman was uncomfortable with open emotions, and not completely at ease dealing with them himself. "I have a feeling Wheeler's not going to leave me alone tomorrow, so I'd better get some sleep."

For once glad of Hogan's ability to change the subject, Newkirk nodded and gestured toward the other bed as he sat back down on his. "Right then, best you get back there before I have to carry you over." He tried to put a stern look on his face, but his eyes gave the game away, showing his relief at not having lost his friendship with Hogan over what had happened.

Hogan climbed into bed. He had used tiredness as an excuse to let Newkirk off the hook, but now he was really feeling it. He lay back wearily and closed his eyes. But with images of the horrors Newkirk must have told Wheeler about filling his mind, it took him a long time to fall asleep.


	14. HalfTruths and Good Friends

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.

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A little inaccuracy sometimes saves tons of explanation.

—Saki

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**Chapter Fourteen**

**Half-Truths and Good Friends**

As soon as Hogan left the room for his morning session with Wheeler, Newkirk picked up the telephone and started dialing. He didn't have the number memorized, so it took a few minutes for the long-distance operator to connect him with a certain home in Detroit. _This could get tricky; Kinch was almost as good as Hogan at seeing right through me. Have to give it my best shot, then._

A voice muffled by sleep answered. "Hello?"

"Oh, blimey." Newkirk shook his head. "I didn't wake you, did I, mate?"

"Who's this? Newkirk? Peter, is that you?"

"Yeah, Kinch, it's me. Sorry if I got you up, but I didn't think you'd still be asleep so late." Newkirk glanced at the wall clock, confirming that it really did say eight o'clock.

Newkirk could hear a yawn being stifled through the phone line. "I'm not usually, but I've been working overtime in anticipation of your visit. I got off the graveyard shift about three hours ago, and... it's a little earlier where I am than where you are."

"Kinch, I... that's what I'm callin' you about. It looks like I may not be getting out to see you this time around."

The voice on the other end of the line grew concerned. Newkirk could picture Kinch's furrowed brow even as the man spoke. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah." The Englishman paused. "No, not really. You remember General Barton, Kinch? I went to this retirement party for him with the gov'nor nor a few nights ago. Well, after it was all said and done, I wound up driving us home because Rob was a bit too tired and..." Newkirk's voice trailed off, leaving silence on the phone line.

"And what?" Kinch asked immediately. Newkirk didn't answer right away. "_And what?_" Kinch repeated. The voice was getting more and more urgent. "Peter, what's going on? Is the Colonel all right?"

Newkirk noted that Kinch had also called Hogan "the Colonel." _Funny_, he thought, _no matter how far the man goes, he'll always be "Colonel Hogan" to us._ He hauled his thoughts back to his clearly anxious friend on the phone. "Oh, right. Sorry about that, mate." _Gotta watch that; James Kinchloe is far too sharp a man for me wits to be off wandering just now._ "The Colonel's fine; he just took a few hard knocks is all. I was driving, we got sideswiped and next thing I know I've smashed into a tree. I think I totally ruined the car in the process."

Kinch didn't seem convinced. "That's doesn't sound very good, Peter. Are you sure it's just 'a few hard knocks'? What happened to him? And what about you? Where _are_ you?"

"Easy, Kinch, easy. We're both still in hospital, but it's the doctors being cautious on account of both of us getting knocked out for a while. That and I picked up a pretty nasty cough from being out in the snow a bit too long. Just don't go getting' the wind up, mate, we're both gonna come out all right in the end." Newkirk laughed softly. "That is, if we don't wind up driving each other round the bend before they give us the boot." _Come on, Kinch. Listen to what I'm saying and don't dig too deeply into it._

But Kinch was more perceptive that Newkirk would have liked. "Going to come out okay? Knocked out for awhile? Peter, it doesn't sound like everything's fantastic over there. You're doing that little two-step you learned while we were in camp; I can hear it."

"There's nothing more to tell, mate. I smashed the Colonel's car and made a total mess of things with it. We both got banged up a good bit, and as I said, I picked up a little extra from being wet and cold longer than was good for me. As for doing any kind of two-step as you put it—the only two-step I'm doing is trying to dodge the local peelers. It seems they aren't taking too kindly to a visitor from London having been behind the wheel in a smash up."

Kinch's voice betrayed his doubt. "I don't know, Peter. It seems like an awfully long time to be in the hospital for a bit of a cough and a bang-up." He sighed. "Still, if you're not going to tell me anything, there's not much I can do about it. Can I talk to him?"

"He's having a bit of a kip just now, and you know how grouchy he can be when he wakes up. Tell you what, when he's up, I'll have him call you." Newkirk sighed softly. "Look, Kinch, I'm real sorry about spoiling everything we've been planning, but I'm going to stick around here until everything's straightened out. I don't feel right leaving the Colonel to deal with my mess with the car and all."

A short silence indicated Kinch was debating his answer. "All right, Peter," he answered eventually. "You know, it sounds like the weather was pretty bad over there, I doubt Rob would blame you for what happened with the car." A pause. "Unless you decided to drive like they do in London—they're crazy!"

"Oh do me a favor, mate! It's _you_ lot that drive on the wrong side of the road!" Newkirk smiled as it seemed that Kinch was going to accept what he'd been saying—whether he believed it or not. "And before you say it, yes, I was driving on the right. But then, so was the bleedin' idiot that hit us!"

"Well, then, that's all there is to it. I'm disappointed, of course, but I understand. Make sure you look after Rob—and after yourself, all right? Maybe you can come when you're through there, or later in the year, if Jillian will let you out. Or maybe she'd actually come with you!"

"Yeah, we'll try to work it better next time so she can come along. In any case, after this little adventure, she may not let me out _alone_ anymore." Laughing quietly, Newkirk went on. "If things settle here, I'll try to stop up for at least a day or so before I go home, but I'll definitely ring you before I do. Otherwise, I reckon we'll have to take another shot at it later on."

"Okay, Peter," Kinch said. "I'm glad you called. And hey—it's still great talking to you, man. You keep in touch."

"Always, mate. And who knows, we might be able to work things around so you can make the trip across the Pond yourself one of these days. You take care of yourself, James."

"Will do."

Newkirk said his good-byes and hung up the phone. _That could have gone better, but at least Kinch isn't going to take the next bus down here. I hope._ He leaned back, taking a few minutes to catch his breath before making his next call.

Another round of business with the long-distance operators, and Newkirk waited for Andrew Carter to pick up the phone. _Let's see how this goes._

It was answered on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Hallo, Andrew, it's Peter. How did your exams go?" Newkirk smiled to himself. _Get Carter's attention on something else first, and he's usually easier to keep sidetracked. Let's hope that's still the case._

The puppy-like enthusiasm that was Carter bubbled through the line. "Peter! Hey, buddy! Good to hear from you! They've gone great—I think! Won't have the results for another week, though. What are you up to?"

"I'm sure you've done well, mate, and you'll be a real chemist before you know it. I'd love to be there to celebrate with you, but I've come onto a bit of a problem here in Washington."

"What kind of problem?" The buoyancy in Carter's voice dropped slightly. "You mean you can't come out to Muncie?"

"That's how it looks right now, Andrew. The Colonel and I were out late the other night, and I was driving because he was a bit tired, and, well, I smashed up the car. But don't worry," Newkirk went on without giving Carter a chance to speak up. "We're both fine; the doctors are just keeping us in hospital a few days to make sure, so I don't know exactly when I'll be able to travel on."

"Oh." All the cheerfulness was gone now. "Gee, I was looking forward to seeing ya, buddy," Carter said. "But you said you're in the hospital—are you sure you should be on the phone? I mean, are you too sick to be up like this?"

"At ease, Carter." Newkirk grinned as he quoted a line that Hogan had frequently used when the young Sergeant had taken off on a conversational tangent. "I'm quite up to being on the phone for a bit. To tell the truth, I think the doctors are glad I'm staying in one spot for a while; I think the gov'nor and I are gettin' on their nerves or something."

"How is he—the Colonel?" Carter asked. "He's not usually one to stay down for very long. Is he okay?"

"He's gonna be fine, mate. He's just getting in a few extra days of rest while he's got the chance."

Carter's voice gave away his suspicion. "Colonel Hogan never takes extra time," he said, unthinkingly referring to Hogan by his old rank—whenever he thought of Hogan, the former demolitions expert couldn't help but place the man on a pedestal, and that meant maintaining his status as "Colonel" and head of the no-longer-existent operation they all worked in at Stalag 13. "Are you sure the doctors didn't miss anything?"

"I'm sure. The gov'nor's all right, Andrew." Newkirk put as much sincerity into his voice as he could. "I was just ringing to let you know what's happened, that's all, and to tell you I might not be able to make it out to see you on this trip."

"Gee," Carter's disappointed voice sighed down the phone line. "Okay. Well, as long as you and the Colonel are all right," he said. "I'll be sorry to miss ya."

"I was looking forward to it as well. Maybe we can make arrangements later on and try again soon. However, if you get some time between classes, I'd really like for you to come visit London, and I promise to show you all around a real city."

Carter chuckled, a musical sound to Newkirk after Carter's disappointment. "I've already seen it, Peter. You were there with me, remember? I saw the zoo, and Hyde Park… and even that pub you said I had to try that warm beer at. That was disgusting."

Newkirk laughed in relief. _I got through this one all right_. "You just have no appreciation for a real pint is all, Andrew. Would it help if I mentioned that the zoo has finished making repairs and has all the animals back where they belong?"

"Are they really? Oh, boy!" Carter replied. "I'll be there just as soon as you say, boy—that is, if I'm not busy—y'know at a drug store—well that is, if I pass my exams. I mean I think I will but you never know and—" Carter stopped himself. His grin was visible in his voice. "I mean, yeah, I'd love to come. Sorry you can't make it out now, but we'll manage some time soon. Say hi to the Colonel for me, would ya?"

"You'll pass, Andrew, and you're always welcome to come whenever you can. I'll certainly say hi to the Colonel for you, mate."

"And you're sure he's okay? You promise?" Carter asked once more.

"Yes, Andrew. I promise."

"Well, okay. I'd better go, then, I still have some stuff to do before I go into work this morning. When you want to let me know what it is you're not telling me, you call me right back, okay? I don't want to have to worry about you guys." And before Newkirk could recover from his surprise enough to respond, Carter said his final cheerful, knowing goodbye, and hung up.

Newkirk placed the handset on its cradle, and sat staring at the phone in amazement_. I should have known better than to think I could really fool either of them. _

The Englishman shook his head and put the phone back onto the bedside table. "It's a good thing I'm not trying to make my living as an actor, isn't it?" He laughed quietly at himself. "And I'm talking to myself again."


	15. The Things We Fear

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, original characters and original storyline belongs to wordybirds. Thanks.

--- --- --- HH --- --- ---

However rare true love is, true friendship is rarer.

—La Rochefoucauld

**Chapter Fifteen**

**The Things We Fear**

Wheeler watched as Hogan took a seat, but not on the comfortable chair the man had been using for their other sessions; instead, Hogan chose the unpadded wooden one near the desk. _Interesting. Something's happened since the last session that has made him go for the more formal approach today. Okay, I'll follow along._ The psychiatrist circled behind his desk and sat down. "Good morning, Robert. Did you sleep well last night?"

Hogan sat quietly opposite Wheeler, his head bowed, not looking at the doctor. He was of two minds this morning: one the one hand, he was angry that Wheeler had used Newkirk to get information about him, and on the other hand, he was ashamed now that Wheeler knew his whole background. He wasn't sure how to approach these sessions now that he knew the doctor was so much better informed about him, and so he said nothing.

Leaning back as he studied the silent man, Wheeler held back a sigh. _Back to square one. Back to even before square one, really, because when we started out, Robert would at least look at me. He's tense. Nervous? No, he's sitting far too still for that._ "If you're having trouble sleeping, Robert, let me know and I can adjust your medicine for you. Speaking of which," Wheeler opened a drawer, removed a bottle and shook a couple of pills into a paper cup that he set on the desk well within Hogan's reach. "The way you've got yourself all knotted up there, Robert, you're courting one hell of a headache, so you'd better take those now and maybe we can stop it before it gets any worse."

Hogan's eyes flickered toward the cup before him, then he looked back toward the floor. "I'm not interested in being drugged," he said dully.

"Good, because I have no intention of letting you spend the rest of your life shuffling around in a drug-induced haze. And for the record, those are nothing but plain old aspirin."

Hogan said nothing, but continued his unseeing stare.

Wheeler stood and went across the room to grab another of the wooden chairs from its place against the far wall of the office. He brought it back to the desk, placing it directly across from Hogan's chair before sitting down. "All right, Robert. What's eating you?" Leaning forward a bit, Wheeler watched Hogan closely. "You know, I can't do anything to help you if you don't let me know what's going on." Still no answer. As Hogan's silence continued, Wheeler sat back shaking his head. "Yesterday, we were getting along just fine; today, well..." He trailed off, waiting for any sort of response. _This isn't good, and despite what I said earlier, I may have to increase his medication anyway_. "What happened, Robert?"

For just a second, Hogan's eyes grew bright as he stared at Wheeler, challenging him, accusing him. "Why don't you ask Peter Newkirk?" he retorted, with just a touch of sarcasm in his voice. Then he broke the stare and fixed his gaze back on a spot on the floor.

"So he's already told you about our discussion. That's fine; I was going to tell you about it today anyway. Did he happen to tell you _why_ I asked him about you?"

Hogan shook his head, refusing to let his anger be quelled. "You have no right to ask a man to breach all confidentiality codes—not to mention letting out a few bits of classified information in the bargain! Peter wouldn't have even seen what was coming—if you told him I needed it, then he'd do it, regardless of the cost to himself _or_ national security. And you had no right to ask him to!"

"And why is that? Why does he care so much about you that he'd risk going to prison for you? For that matter, do you think it was easy to get him to talk?" Wheeler kept his voice calm while he spoke. _Okay, Robert, let's see how far anger takes you today._

Hogan stiffened in the chair. "Peter's my friend. He wouldn't want to talk, but he would do it if he thought it would help. We've been through a lot together." Hogan's flash of anger shut down and he reverted to detachment. "And that's all you need to know, at least from me."

"Exactly. He would do it if he thought it would help. Your man Newkirk laid open a piece of his soul in here, talking about things that he's been carrying around all bottled up inside just because he knows how much it would hurt you if anyone else knew. Why? Because he knew something you don't seem willing to face—" Wheeler leaned forward earnestly in his chair. "—that the memories are killing you. They're tearing you up inside, and some day there won't be anything left of you." He paused. "And he had to speak up for another reason, too, Robert: he told me those secrets are tearing him apart as well."

Hogan grew thoughtful. "I tried never to let on to them," he said softly. "I didn't want to burden them…." His eyes filled with tears, but he refused to give in to them or look at Wheeler. "How could they follow my lead if they thought I was falling apart? They were counting on me...." Hogan finally looked Wheeler in the eye. "You have to let Peter go. Discharge him, get him out of here. He has to get away from me or he'll end up as screwed up as I am." Hogan suddenly covered his eyes and his forehead with his fingers and rubbed almost desperately. "You can't let this happen to anyone else," he said, his voice breaking. Wheeler suspected the man was trying to keep himself from sobbing. "You can't let this happen to my men!"

Wheeler shook his head. _"My men." The strength of the connection between Robert and his men is amazing_. "Peter Newkirk is physically ready to be discharged—that is, if he would go home and rest for a few more days. However, based on his recent behavior, I believe he would spend all his time and energy coming here and could very well run himself down to the point of having a relapse." Wheeler leaned in closer to his distressed patient. "Robert," he said softly. Hogan nodded weakly, not looking at the doctor. "All you and Peter have done since you were brought to this hospital is try to look after each other."

Hogan absorbed the observation with a small nod. "Peter's a good friend," he said.

"And so are you," added Wheeler gently. Hogan shrugged absentmindedly. "The two of you seem to be able to understand the needs of each other, while completely ignoring your own." A pause. "As hard as that might have been for him, Peter spoke to me out of respect and care for you. Brothers do that."

Hogan's eyes indicated that something struck home. _Brothers_.

"And I can see you understand that keeping your secrets exacts a high cost from everyone—your men _and_ yourself."

Hogan's troubled eyes showed his agreement. "Don't let this happen to them," he whispered.

"It won't, Robert," Wheeler assured him. "Not now. Being allowed to tell your story from his point of view has unburdened Peter. And it will help free _you_ from your past as well. You don't have to be afraid any more."

Hogan sighed, a long, deep breath of sadness. "You know," he began almost inaudibly, staring blankly at the window behind Wheeler, "when I first got to Stalag 13, I was scared. I'd just been through sheer Hell at Wetzlar—a final attempt to get me to submit and tell them everything I knew." His moist eyes glazed over as he relived the torture. He brought his hands up to rub his upper arms, and slowly, so slightly, rocked in the chair. "I lost track of time there. I lost track of reality…. All I could think was, how do I stay alive when they're doing everything they can to kill me?"

Hogan fell silent for a moment, lost in the images in his mind. Wheeler pursed his lips, and waited. "When I was finally sent to Stalag 13, they'd broken me. I never told them a thing, not a thing!—but I could barely tell you who I was. I was scared. I was scared to be with the other prisoners, and I was scared to be alone. The camp Kommandant was under orders to continue interrogating me; this place promised to be no different than any of the other hell holes I'd been in." Hogan stopped, and his weak voice suddenly grew stronger. "But I was wrong." Hogan let out an ironic laugh. "The Krauts thought they were stepping on my head by putting me in an enlisted man's camp—keeping me cowed, keeping me out of touch with other men who might be 'more inclined to try and escape.'" He shook his head. "Boy, were _they_ barking up the wrong tree!"

Wheeler smiled gently but said nothing. Hogan was doing just fine on his own. "It took awhile… it took a _long_ while… but I got my confidence back. I knew how to plan strategies and I knew how people thought, even the Krauts, and I could use that to our advantage. Soon it grew into an amazing operation, a lot more complicated than I could ever have anticipated, and we did a lot of damage to the German war effort. Newkirk was right," Hogan said abruptly, his tone suddenly losing its lightness; "the Gestapo _did_ single me out a few times. More than once while I was with them, I had doubts about whether I'd ever make it back to the States." Hogan shook himself out of those memories. "But I had blocked out almost everything, and I was strong. I was _strong_ then. I knew who I was, and why I was in Germany, and I could function and plan and take control of myself."

Hogan sighed and bowed his head, looking intently at his hands, which he had been kneading and twisting in his lap. Now he stilled them. "I miss that," he whispered. "I miss knowing… who I am."

"Who do you think you are?" Wheeler asked softly.

Hogan shook his head slowly. "I don't know." He raised his eyes to the psychiatrist, and the doctor was taken aback by the pleading, the anguish and the intensity in them. "Help me," Hogan begged in a hushed voice. "Help me find out who I am."

--- --- --- HH --- --- ---

Hogan looked around at the people rushing back and forth in the airport, heading toward planes and away from them, carrying bags and looking harried, or tired, or relieved, or all three. He looked at the case he held in his hand, then at the man to whom it belonged, who was leaving him today, two weeks later than planned, and not heading out for more visits, as originally intended, but back to his native land, which to Hogan seemed so, so far away right now.

"Well, you're on your way—finally," Hogan said with a lopsided, awkward smile.

"You'll be glad to see the last of me for a while, I'd say." Newkirk tried to smile in return, but couldn't quite pull it off. "My Nan always said a good guest didn't wear out his welcome; maybe I should have listened to her."

Hogan shook his head. "Nonsense," he said, his forced smile disappearing. "I couldn't have survived this without you." Hogan paused, trying to push his heart back down his throat with a hard swallow. He glanced around again, wondering why on earth he was choosing such a public place to express his heartfelt gratitude to the friend whom he firmly believed saved his life in more ways than one in the last month, instead of taking him aside in private and explaining to Newkirk just what the Englishman's support and friendship meant to him. But with Newkirk's flight leaving in under an hour, Hogan knew that it was now or never. He couldn't let the man go without knowing how he felt. And if that meant spilling his guts in the middle of a crowded airport lounge, then so be it.

"I…" Hogan started. But the right words failed him. He regrouped his thoughts as Newkirk tilted his head and studied him intently. "If you hadn't…" That wasn't right either. Finally Hogan just shook his head. "I don't know how to tell you… what it meant to have you here during all this, Peter," Hogan finally stammered, clearly uncomfortable, but equally determined to get it all out. "I made life Hell for both of us and… well, I'm sorry I messed up the rest of your trip."

"Like you said, mate," Newkirk replied softly, "nonsense. If it all had to happen... I'm glad I was here to help you get through it."

Hogan let out a breath. "Well… thanks." _It's not enough_, he thought. _It's not enough!_ "I mean, thanks for going for help after the accident, and…thanks for coming out to find me in the snow, and… thanks for…" Hogan stopped as memories of waking up in the hospital to face his past came to him; "thanks for not dismissing me as just some special kind of lunatic. I must have been pretty scary for awhile, and…" Hogan faltered. "Thanks for… being my friend."

Newkirk nodded, taking a moment to get his thoughts into some kind of order before speaking. "In spite of all the grief I gave you back in Germany, I was always proud to have you as my commanding officer. And though I'd have said it wasn't possible, I'm prouder still to have you as my friend." He paused, then gave Hogan a look that had as much humor in it as it did irony. "You know, maybe Wheeler was right in the end when he said we were brothers. Of course, I haven't quite figured out if you're the older brother I should look up to, or the younger one I need to walk home from school every day."

Hogan's tension disappeared and he smiled. "I'll be the older one, thanks; I'm used to pulling rank." He nodded softly. "But I don't mind if you want to take charge once in awhile. As long as you remember to give me back the reins when I'm back in control of myself." Hogan's dark eyes looked deeply into his friend's blue ones, and he grew serious. "Thank you, Peter. I'll never forget what you've done."

"Rob, I..." Newkirk's voice trailed off as he found himself held by the sheer force of personality in Hogan's eyes. _These last few weeks have changed him; changed both of us. He'll never again be exactly the same Colonel Hogan I knew, but he's finally found the peace he deserves._ "I'm glad I was able to help, mate."

Hogan nodded, then averted his gaze with difficulty. "You'd better get going; your… flight will be boarding in a minute."

"Right. I suppose this is where we say farewell." Newkirk put a smile on his face and held out his hand. "It's been quite an adventure, Rob, but we'll try to keep things a bit quieter when you make the trip to London."

Hogan accepted Newkirk's hand and gripped it tightly. Could this simple gesture convey everything he couldn't say? As he felt Newkirk return the pressure on his hand, Hogan felt tears sting behind his eyes. Suddenly he dropped the bag he was holding and took Newkirk in a firm, brotherly embrace. "You be safe," he said in a whisper. "Don't you forget how important you are to me."

"You too, gov'nor. You've got to take care of yourself now. But you're not alone; I'm only a phone call away," Newkirk whispered in reply before finally stepping back. "Don't be afraid to ring."

Hogan blinked hard and straightened his coat to distract himself. He looked at the fine hand-tailoring, and smiled gently. "Thanks for the jacket, by the way. My dress coat was ruined the night I went wandering, and... well, I think this one fits me much better anyway." He nodded at the gift he wore, suddenly unwilling to meet Newkirk's eyes.

Newkirk smiled gently, understanding Hogan's need to change the subject and not minding in the least this time, as he needed time to get his own feelings under control. "Well, see that you take better care of this one then. After all, it's an original Peter Newkirk design, and it might even be worth a few quid someday if I ever make it onto Saville Row." He laughed softly. "It's not bad for an old bit of blanket, is it?"

Hogan shook his head. "Get outta here," he ordered with a gentle punch to Newkirk's arm. "And if I catch you using anything but the proper materials, I'll have you brought into the US Air Force and _then_ court-martialed!" Hogan smiled, then said quietly, "By the way, I've changed my mind about leaving the service. I've decided to stay on when the time comes." Another pause, then he admitted, "I think the discipline and the support are probably good for me, especially now."

"I'm glad, Rob. I think it's the right thing for you to do." Newkirk shook his head and grinned. "But I think His Majesty the King might have something to say about me being conscripted by you Yanks! Still, I'd consider it an honor and a privilege to serve under your command again, sir." Newkirk laughed out loud. "Even if it meant that we were finally _in the same bleedin' Army_!"

Hogan laughed and handed Newkirk the bag he had dropped. "Go on—they're starting to call your flight." He took in and let out a calming breath. "I'll see you around."

"That you will, Rob. You're stuck with me for the duration." Newkirk smiled as he took his case from Hogan, and slung his garment bag over his shoulder. "However long that might turn out to be." Newkirk suddenly remembered all the prayers he had said over the last couple of weeks, and realized that they had all been answered. Credit where credit is due, he thought gratefully._ Thank you, Sir. For everything. _The Englishman turned on his heel and walked away, whistling a brisk marching tune as he disappeared into the crowd.

Hogan shook his head and watched until Newkirk was out of sight, then continued looking after him for another minute before finally turning and heading back to the parking lot where the replacement vehicle he had bought with Newkirk was waiting for him. _I hope it's a long time, my friend._ _It'll give me that much longer to thank God for bringing you into my life._ Then he started whistling the same tune Newkirk had minutes earlier, and, finally unafraid, Hogan went home.


End file.
